Mania!
by KeeLimeArt
Summary: In the summer of '66, Davy Jones emigrates from Manchester, England to a beachy paradise outside of Malibu, California. Broke, evicted, and at his wit's end, Davy's barely scraping by- But he's not the only one. A failing actor, a country singer, and a folk artist are down in the dumps with him. However, they just might be each other's saving grace.
1. Hey, Hey, We're- Strangers!

The amp screeched with static protest. A cymbal gave a brassy clang as it hit the floor. Scurrying footsteps of musicians and technicians mixed with the usual banter and frustration. These were all common sounds in Joe's Barbeque on Saturday night. The restaurant gave its performers a measly commission for their performance, but, hey, they could play their music. They could look how they wanted. Mom and Dad wouldn't toss them out for being too loud.

The barbeque joint, itself, was far from fancy. Glassless windows, screen doors, and foldable chairs didn't scream luxury at anybody. The decorations came from remote antique stores and slung about anywhere. It was barely large enough to carry more than the kitchen and a few tables, but nobody minded. After all, if you came to Joe's, you wanted to be outside, where the live music was.

"Come on, man, just a little more time. I swear he'll be here any minute," pleaded Judas "Dicky" Dixon, lead guitarist an act that night.

The stage manager groaned in exasperation. Boy, these kids pushed him farther off the brink every night. "Buddy, you're not the only one performing tonight," he explained. "We got a tight schedule, and the boss don't like it when we go 'round mucking up his plans. Go ahead. Look at the list. You Doves go next. Followed by that Mike- ah- what's-his-name, Texas over there-"

"The Pelicans," Dicky corrected him. "We're called the Pelicans."

The stage manager scoffed. "Whatever. You can call yourselves the Jolly Green Giants for all I care. You're going on now or you're not going on at all," he snapped.

"But, wait!"

"Dicky, can I get a hand over here?" whined their drummer from the bandstand. "My cymbal's rolled off!"

Dicky hesitated and ran a hand through his shaggy platinum hair. With a grunt, he turned sharply on his heel and snatched the disc. Slapping off dust with vigor, he muttered obscenities under his breath. Of all the times to be late...

"Wait, don't start!" someone shouted from afar.

Another young fellow was blazing through the crowd. His banjo was strung on back, small paper bag in hand, and shirt buttoned in the wrong slots. Long, dirty blonde hair whistled in the wind as he came charging up the stairs.

"Sorry I'm late," he wheezed. "Got stuck in a traffic jam."

Dicky glanced up with a snort. "I thought you don't drive, Peter," he challenged.

"Oh no, I don't. I walked all the way here. I just had to stop at the fruit market on the side of the road. There's this sale, and I didn't wanna pass on the preserves before they went out of season," said Peter. He opened the bag of goodies to show Dicky.

"It doesn't matter." Dicky smacked the bag aside and gave Peter a small shove. "Let's just do the show before they cut us out."

The band was finally complete, and all five Pelicans were getting in position, ready to work their mediocre magic. What they did didn't really matter, for the talent of the performers never seemed to faze the audience. The groups had the limelight, enthrallment, and pride radiating from them. Their energy alone could make an ordinary stiff jump up and shout. Alas, Davy could do nothing but don his beige jumpsuit, sweep floors, and content himself with listening.

Davy immigrated to America within the past year, looking for his own American dream. The boy had just turned eighteen when his grandfather secured him a ticket from Manchester to Clarkesville. Before the week was out, he was bound for the states with a small suitcase and a fistful of cash. He figured that anybody who was anybody ended up in California at some point. Sure, Clarkesville wasn't Los Angeles. But, it was close in distance and cheap to live in, too. Besides, the oceanfront city was filled to the brim with teen hangouts looking for local talent.

Unfortunately, Davy discovered the hard way that success didn't come easily. Sweeping the floors of Joe's Barbecue was his third odd job since his arrival. He tried countless times to get a permanent job in the past year, but nobody wanted to hire long-term. The best jobs were only available as seasonal work, but that, too, was running short. It was summer's end, and soon, all these places were going into hibernation 'til spring. Still, Davy had to milk the benefits of his situation- for now.

Finding quick money fixes sapped up all of Davy's time, however, and left no room for show business. With every passing day, his ambitions ran farther and farther from his reach. If nothing happened soon, he felt that his fantasies would be snuffed from existence, and then where would he be?

"Keep sweepin', short stack, you aren't being paid to stand around daydreamin' ," the stage manager barked upon passing.

Davy quickly snapped out of his thoughts. With a shake of his head, he gripped the broom and focused back on sweeping the grime-caked floor. One of these days he'd be on the other side, but, clearly, this was not that day.

After three allotted songs, the Pelicans took a bow and marked the end of their show. By then, the sun was barely visible over the horizon, and only a faint glimmer of red and gold remained in the skies. As though reacting to the end of the performance, the lights in the willow tree flickered on, and they enveloped the grotto in streaks of color. The polite applause from the audience soon turned into a thunderous eruption.

The next performer took his cue and marched onto the stage. Mike spoke for himself when he walked in with his acoustic guitar and knitted cap. He was a frequent player at the joint, for his humble country charms and hickory-smoked accent made him irresistible. It brought the people back for more music and the musician back for more money.

With a wave to the audience, Mike pulled his wood stool upstage. As the remaining Pelicans loaded up their gear, he cleared his throat and leaned into the microphone.

"Well, good evenin' everyone," the Texan simply began. "I'm Michael Nesmith, and-"

"Hey, Tiny," someone grunted into David's ear.

Davy gave a start and whipped around. "Yea?" he asked.

"Boss needs to see you in the manager's den," the gruff, unshaven employee continued. He jabbed a finger at the building, which was actually a glorified, crooked shack in a forgotten corner of the restaurant. It stood, static and looming, its rusty chimney striking the heavens.

Davy would have wrinkled his nose in distaste, but fear gripped him too suddenly.

The Englishman had never been asked inside before. He had certainly heard stories, but most of those, he figured, were tall tales used to spook new employees. A pit still burrowed deep into his gut, whether the legends were true or not.

"All right. Thank you," Davy sincerely answered.

He tried to sound confident, but the boy felt as though his feet were anchored down with the weight of the world. It only seemed to grow heavier with every step. By the time he reached the door, he could have sworn that the soles of his shoes were pinned to the ground. With a rapidly jumping heart, he raised a hand to knock, but the surface swung open before he could make contact. It happened so quickly that he feared the door would rip off its hinges.

On the inside, a portly man towered over Davy. His long, greasy wig flopped into his face, and his tight pants were a blinding yellow. Not to mention, his style was horribly mismatched. It would almost be comical- if the guy didn't have such a hardened face.

The stench of smoke wafted from the shack and hit Davy's nostrils like a brick. It was all he could do to suppress a cough.

"You the clean-up guy?" the formidable figure huffed.

"Yes, sir," Davy choked out. "I'm Davy- David."

The man's eyes narrowed as he gave the tiny guy a look over. "Come on, my boy, we have a few things to talk about," he informed with a hoarse laugh. His face tightly stretched into a smile, but his 'warm' personality only sent a shiver down Davy's spine

Davy carefully edged into the shack, which felt smaller from the piles of paper, litter, and unidentifiable garbage. He took a quick glance around, even catching the date on an old newspaper. It was printed in 1937, about thirty years ago, and the slice of pizza on top looked just as ancient. With a grimace, Davy decided this man was, without a doubt, a grotesque packrat.

A foldout table was wedged in the corner with more rubbish stacked on top. The man hobbled over and used an arm to brush everything off. With a snort, he collapsed onto a rickety ottoman, and a puff of dust squirted from the cushion.

There came a muffled cry of joy from the audience outside, and the sweet sound of music soon followed. Oh, how Davy wished that he could have been out there.

"Have a seat, son," the manager instructed, gesturing to a chair almost obscured from view.

Davy looked at stained chair with concern. Not wanting to offend, he still sat, but barely on the edge.

"You started working 'round last month, yeah?" the man asked as he pulled Davy's papers off of the ground.

Davy uncomfortably squirmed, for the back of his pants kept sticking to the chair. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Call me Johnny, kid, everybody else does," the man waved aside. He put on a petite pair of glasses to look over the information. Davy felt like he was in a complicated interview, unlike the first one Joe's gave him. After a moment of long, solemn reading, Johnny peered up at Davy with curiosity.

Johnny inquired, "You're from England, right? Interesting… but I'm guessing you've been in town long enough to get into the rhythm of things. "

Oh no, Davy internally bemoaned. He'd seen all the situations before, and every time they started something like this. The employer would inquire, explain the situation, and then, it was the boot for good ol' Davy.

"Johnny, wait," Davy interrupted, "If I could just-"

Johnny grumbled, "Kiddo, a full staff depends on their salaries here, including me. We all have families and more than one mouth to feed. Some cuts had to be made, and you didn't make it." His voice was short and firm, like he'd already been through this speech too many times today.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Davy insisted, holding his hand up. "I can do a lot more than sweep floors. I came to America to sing and- and dance! Here, look, just- see what I can do, will you? Maybe I can join the show."

Davy took a stand and plastered on an award winning smiles. He started doing a jig in place, but his footwork was shaky. The cluttered surroundings didn't help, either. He unavoidably kicked a few things in his path, and as a result, his whole dance was loused up.

Johnny gave the boy a pitying look as he watched. "Kid, David, right? We just can't risk it. I'm sorry, but-" he began.

Davy abruptly stopped his dance and looked at Johnny with pleading eyes. "Johnny, please," he begged.

Johnny huffed, annoyed at being interrupted again. After that, it was silent in the cabin, for both men refused to move or speak. Davy was the first to break eye contact, and he looked down with a hefty sigh.

There was no point in waiting for a response, and Johnny was clearly not going to give him one. With weighty heart, Davy slumped back to the exit and made his way out. The volume of the song dramatically increased with his arrival, and the smooth, sorrowful guitar licks complimented his mood. He took one last look at the stage and the performer pouring his heart into a song. A chord of envy was struck within him, but he had to turn the other cheek. Looks like he was going to have another long walk home.

It was one of the most beaten up apartment buildings in town. The paint was peeling and faded to pink. Foliage sprouted through the flimsy foundation and lined the edges of the concrete walkways. It was a miracle that the place was still standing and not condemned. At the very least, it was out of the rough parts of town and a roof over Davy's head, albeit it's a leaky one.

Davy slowly trekked up the cracked steps, his eyes half closed and his spirits plunging. He thought getting up at random hours for random jobs wasn't ideal, but it beat being broke and starving.

Slanted floorboards led Davy to a rugged room at the end of the hall. Half of the time, he was locked out all night. Otherwise, he had to find something heavy enough to keep the door closed. Lucky for him, he didn't have to worry about either that night. At least fate was kind enough to give him that.

The door opened halfway before hitting the pint-sized refrigerator. He never used the oven, for his cot blocked the opening. Only one window gave Davy access to the outside world, and even then, he could only look through it if he was lying down. This was home for the past year, and it was a huge difference from the estate that he shared with his grandfather.

Davy sluggishly unzipped the jumpsuit and shed it like a snake's skin. Underneath, he wore a striped t-shirt with a pair of red shorts that looked more like swim trunks. Going down to the beach was yet another thing that he found no time for, but he didn't had time to mourn that fact.

Davy didn't bother to change into a pair of pajamas that night, mostly because he pawned his set a long time ago. He threw himself onto the weathered cot and listened to the springs groan and creak in protest. The ceiling was his only focus as he laid in thought. Oh, if only his grandfather could've seen him. Instead of a wealthy entrepreneur, he was a few steps ahead of the common beggar. All he needed was a cardboard box and a metal can for spare change. Welcome to the U.S., Davy, land of the free and home of the brave.

No, Davy knew he couldn't think like that. He had to climb out of this rut. He had to make something out of himself. He couldn't lay here and feel sorry for his life. There was a force drilling its way into his heart, and it refused to let him give up. He was going to follow it, wherever it may lead.

Davy turned over and pulled up the thin covers. It was then he noticed that the lights were completely out, except for the stars in the sky. His room was focused away from the bright lights of the city. Not even a lamppost was visible from his room, but that was not a bad thing. Without the artificial lights of man, the stars would peep out of the heavens, and that night, they were as clear as crystal. That's when Davy knew. Sometimes you have to turn out the lights in order to see the stars. That's all this was. He's turning out the lights. Tomorrow was a new day, and by gosh, he was going to seize every opportunity coming his way.

That night, Davy fell asleep watching the stars, and the hopeful, loving gleam of the lights forever reflected in his eyes.


	2. This Just Doesn't Seem to be My Day

Davy was evicted within the next month.

The odd jobs were becoming too few and too far in between. Eventually, he was desperate enough to take the dirtiest work he could get a hold of. Only, he had no stomach for them. One failed attempt led into another, and he was soon spending less on food and other luxuries. Soon, if he didn't pool all of his money for rent, the landlady would've thrown him out.

She did.

It only took Davy a day to become a wanderer of the streets. As he strolled the blocks, he tried to find- anything, from a job to a place to stay. Wanting to appear as ordinary as possible, he looked purposeful as he went. Though, he felt that everyone could see through his façade. He eventually found nothing in the city, and the boy ended up spending the night on a park bench.

A week later, people started giving him nasty looks or adverting their eyes entirely. One week alone would leave a man cold, unshaven, and clothing unkempt. Now he really looked like he belonged on streets, and Davy felt ashamed for it. What kind of life was spent on the curb, hoping to earn pity and spare change? A dark haze was surrounding him and thoroughly fogging his brain. His grim outlook might have worsened if not for a moment of salvation.

Davy had been staring at the ground one afternoon, collecting his thoughts, when he heard, "Gee mister, the clouds raining that hard on your parade?"

He looked up in confusion, only to find a ragamuffin child staring down at him.

"I mean you look so sad," the kid amended, trying to sit, too.

"Yeah, well," Davy began, scooting in the opposite direction, "times are just rough right now, man, and I can't really do anything about it."

"But that's no reason to be so sad," the child innocently informed. After a second of thought, he reached into his pocket and fished out two cherry lollipops. "Here. Candy always makes me feel better."

Davy gently took one of the sticks and studied it for a moment. Meanwhile, the boy ripped his own paper off and jammed it into his mouth.

Davy calmly inquired, "Why are you doing this?"

"I told you," the boy mumbled. "Candy always makes things better, and I don't like frowny faces. Momma always told me to remember my blessings in life. You know, at least I'm still alive. At least you're still alive, mister! I'm sure things could be a whole lot worse, and if they can't, then they can only get better from here."

Davy offered a tired smile for the enthusiasm. "Of course," he agreed, in no mood to

argue.

"Maybe you should try counting your blessings sometimes," the boy added.

'Yeah, sure."

Davy's companion sat for a while to watch people walk by. Sometimes, they'd toss a coin into Davy's case. Though he hated to admit it, Davy started thinking that the kid's presence was luring more people in. Still, he appreciated the company and didn't want to tell the boy off.

At sunset, Davy's friend bid a farewell. Davy kept an eye out for him, suspecting that he was going home for dinner. However, the kid stopped at the corner with some other rough looking children. He shook his fist in the air, showing off something shiny. Davy peeked at his suitcase, only to find a good portion of his coins missing.

He would have been upset, but the children ran to the bakery across the way. They walked out sharing a loaf of bread.

Davy picked himself off the sidewalk- and pressed on.

Even without a quarter to his name, Davy had to find food. How do you find free food out of the wilderness? Scavenging, of course!

Everything he needed was in the collection units around town. Yes, dumpster diving was disgusting, but sometimes weren't as bad as others. After all, most restaurants throw out perfectly good food for no reason. Once discovering this, he didn't have to worry about starving anymore. Add that with the water fountains around town, and his basic needs were all set. Now he could focus on getting his life straightened out, but this time, he was going to do it right. He started building up his dreams again, even if it was on a much smaller scale. Singing in the square was the right place to start, though.

Everyday, Davy would set up in Town Center Park to sing his little heart out. He only knew how to dish out simple show tunes, but his efforts were nonetheless heartwarming.

Davy was, for once, somewhat proud of what he did. Not to mention, there were a few fairly earned coins in his pocket. He almost made enough money to quit his scavenging habits. Almost.

In the meantime, he found a broken set of maracas for ten cents. He was somewhat familiar with percussion, so an instrument like that was going to be a piece of cake. It wasn't a guitar, but he could work it into the mini show.

His cutesy personality paired well with shakers, and people ate it up. More change was coming in, and for that, Davy was extremely grateful. If only he had enough to buy a coat before the cold season. There was time, he thought. It was still California, after all. How cold could it get?

The first real, cold day chilled him to the bone, and he knew that he could ignore it no longer. There had to be a coat somewhere, but none of the stores would throw away a good jacket. Only residents would do that!

Perfect families were tucked in their pastel, cookie-cutter houses. No garden gnome or plastic flamingo was out of place, and all rested atop perfectly manicured grass. It was eerily quiet, even with the people inside laughing and having fun.

Davy skipped over the happy little homes and went straight to the apartment complexes. Desperate or not, he refused to loot through a single family's trash. Besides, apartments had larger containers and more variety. An entire complex shouldn't have been a hassle, even though it took forever to get there.

His greatest fear, however, was being discovered when dawn broke through.

Just stay calm. The night was fresh, cool, and, most importantly, young. He ran a hand over his stubbly face and thumbs over his eyes. Get it together, and you'll be okay, kid. You're almost there.

Davy strolled up to the chain fence and casually shifted around. He looked about, making sure that the coast was clear before jumping. Wasting no time, he made his ascent.

At the top, he tried to sling his leg over, but the pant leg caught on the metal. His breathed hitched into his throat. No, no, NO! Somebody could see him! He jerked his leg to unhook it, but the ankle wasn't going down without a fight. If it couldn't be adjoined to the fence, then it wasn't going to be adjoined with anything.

Rrrip!

Down he went, a strip of fabric floating after him like a feather.

He hit the ground on his hands and knees, skinning them raw. Still, his heart felt like it was thumping out of his chest.

Move!

He looked like a baby deer trying to stand, for his legs were shaking so badly. When he finally found his balance, he shot off for the trashcan.

It took less than a second to pop the top. Five minutes. That's what he told himself. When that time was up, he was getting out of there, regardless of whether or not he had a coat. Nothing was worth that much anxiety.

There were a few food scraps, but nothing eatable. The usual garbage rotted with putrid odor. Oh look, a slimy rug- wait- was that a rug?

Davy slowly peeled the article off the side of the can. The center had a circular hole neatly trimmed out of it. Unless you're looking for a unique Christmas skirt, you don't go and cut holes through rugs.

Davy stepped out into the moonlight, and unfolded the article. No, it wasn't a rug. It was a poncho with beautifully embroidered designs!

"Why toss this?" Davy asked and ran a hand over the coarse surface. He knew it would probably swallow him whole, but, still, he couldn't help but to be curious. The base was soft beige in color and was accented with complex patterns of-

"Hands in the air!" someone shouted from behind. The poncho slipped from his fingers and flopped down to his feet. He instinctively raised his hands and looked over his shoulder.

"Don't you move, you dirty rat! I have a weapon, and I am not afraid to use it," the other warned.

Davy's head shot back around. "I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean-" David stuttered.

"Hey, hey, let me do the talking now."

"Please, let me just explain!" Davy shuffled around to face his captor.

"Hey, I said-" the newcomer warned, but now, there was a nervous note to his voice.

Davy could see a young man around the same age with something clasped in his hands.

Fearing a firearm, Davy slowed and made no sudden movements.

"Look, I don't mean any harm!" Davy beseeched.

"Stay back!" He took the object in hand and clicked it on. Instead of gunfire, however, it emitted a powerful suction. Davy staggered back and clutched his chest in shock. A sharp rod of panic pierced his heart rather than a bullet, but he couldn't tell the difference.

He tried to run before it was too late.

Is the thief charging!? The captor squeaked in fear and turned to his last resort. He finally flung his weapon at Davy. The object spun in the air, almost in slow motion, but Davy couldn't see it coming. It hit his forehead with a nauseating crack!

For a moment, everything was enveloped in silence. Davy's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground. A red streak started bubbling up through his skin.

Micky watched with his mouth agape. The other boy was limp as a rag doll, sprawled across the pavement. He unsteadily picked up the handheld vacuum, and cradled it to his chest.

"Oh Gee," Micky gasped in disbelief. "Oh Gee, I've killed him. Mom!" He scampered to the apartment. "Mom, I've killed somebody! And what's my poncho doing in the trash?!"


	3. Take A Giant Step

Davy wasn't accustomed to good dreams. No, he wasn't sent to sleep with a warm glass of milk, but the shadows weren't plaguing him, either. This time there was laughter in his heart and a carefree attitude in his mind.

He was in the center of a garden labyrinth, but it was okay. He knew that he wasn't lost. The sun, high above the flowers, graciously warmed his cheeks. Colorful poppies and radiant tulips reached out to brush his legs. They were as lively as a spring day, much like he was.

Fleeting figures joined Davy in the race to the exit. Their faces were blurred and featureless, yet they felt as familiar as old friends.

"Come on, come on!" one of the silhouetted figures beckoned. "We're almost there! A few more steps and we're on our own!" The form stood beside an arch adorned with every specimen from the grounds.

Beyond the arch, the landscape was consumed by light, yet Davy did not fear the oblivion. Two others linked their arms with the boy and pulled him along. They were all giddy with laughter, including Davy.

The ground started to break away into space. Davy barely touched the arch before the light started to expand, growing so large that it blinded him. Reality slowly came back into focus, and the boy woke in foreign territory.

It was warm, much warmer than an alleyway in the morning. Stranger still, Davy found himself lying on top of something- soft. Yes, it was most definitely soft. Not a park bench, nor concrete. He shuffled around, struggling to sit up, but the sudden movement caused his head to throb. He slung back down into the- covers? Something heavy weighed him down to the soft cushions, and it wasn't the wet rag pressed to his head, either.

His memory was frayed, and he couldn't rightfully remember how he ended up there. The more he tried to think about it, the harder the hammer crashed against his skull. With a groan, he rolled over and curled into a fetal position. His answers would arrive shortly. For now, he'd enjoy the comfort.

Soft music soon reached his ears. His head perked up, yet the sound didn't move him any further. A musician sat at the base of the bed, and experimental guitar chords resonated through the area.

Micky sat in floor, his fingers raw from strumming and soft brown hair clinging to his forehead. This room was his entire world. It was a fortress of solitude and music. While the rest of the house slept, he stole away, hoping to be able to play without disturbing everyone.

Their unexpected visitor, under the insistence of his mother, occupied his bed. Lucky for him, his family was too tired to chew him out right then. They would deal with him in the morning. Still, they were harboring an injured stranger in their home, in his bed.

Micky tried to work out a few riffs by humming to himself. Every once in a while, he'd stop playing, give out a frustrated huff, and try again. Drums. He could do those, but the guitar was a horse of a different color.

Once, he stumbled on the chord change, and everything abruptly stopped. Once, twice, he tried to work through it, only to end up with a sour twang each time. With a heavy sigh, he pushed the guitar away in dissatisfaction.

"You're fingering it wrong..." Davy rasped.

Micky jumped in surprise and whisked around. As expected, David tiredly slumped atop the mattress, but his chocolate colored eyes pierced Micky with their keenness. Regardless, he was more interested in music than his health.

"How long have you been up?" Micky quickly asked. In other words, "How long have you been listening?"

"Your fingers," Davy directed, pointing at the guitar.

When he received another blank, bewildered look from Micky, he slowly shifted into a sitting position. Despite himself, Micky held the neck of the instrument to David and delicately slipped it into his lap.

"You see, you're bending your wrist around too much," said Davy, pressing his fingertips to the frets. "You've got to hold it like this and relax your grip. Else you're just going to strum a rotten chord, see?" With that, he easily flicked through the riff by ear. The last note was a little too loud, and it ripped right through his head. With a wince he placed a hand on his temple and gave the guitar back to Micky.

"'Ere, you try it," he said.

Micky gingerly took the instrument from Davy's hands and tried to replicate the movements. As he strummed, his playing became much smoother and softer to the ears. It wasn't perfect yet, but he'd gotten past his barriers. He chuckled in relief, at ease for being able to put it all together.

"You play?" Micky probed. Then, everything finally clicked. "Say, haven't I seen you somewhere? Playing on the streets? Yeah, with the maracas and the show tunes!"

Davy defensively asked, "What about it?"

"Nothing, nothing," Micky amended, seeing that he was being too pushy. "Just glad to see other people that play. Ah… I guess I should say sorry about what happened out there earlier."

"What happened-?" He touched the side of his head and scowled. "Oh. Right. That."

"You just, you startled me, that's all! I came out there to take out the trash 'cause I forgot to do it earlier, and somebody goes digging through your garbage in the middle of the night, you can't help but to panic, you know? My room's real close to the bins, too. I- I don't know what I was thinking, man, really. Maybe I wanted to be the hero for my mom and sister, and I got so carried away with the- the vacuum and all that."

"You don't have to apologize, really," Davy politely informed. "I shouldn't have been here in the first place. It's me who should be sorry about going through your old stuff."

Micky gasped in relief and gave Davy a sheepish, toothy grin. "Well, in that case, we square?" he wondered.

"Absolutely," Davy confirmed with a nod. "I'll get out of your hair if you just give me a minute." With that, he moved to the side of the bed to stand. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he gently swayed for a minute, trying to reconnect his mind with the rest of his body. Micky came over and carefully pushed him back.

"Easy, man," the other musician scolded. "Take it easy before you make yourself really sick."

Against his will, Davy laid back down and his head smacked the pillow. Micky assisted him back into a comfortable position.

"Don't be in such a hurry," Micky calmly commanded. "You can stay here 'til you're well enough to go, kay? Mom probably won't let you leave until she's given you a once-over, too."

"I'd hate to be a menace," Davy informed.

"Don't worry about it. I've already been told to make you comfy and help with anything. Speaking of which, I was also told to give this to you." He gently took a folded poncho off of the ground and laid it next to David.

"Here you go," Micky announced, strained but cheerful. "Don't worry, we gave it a quick scrub, so it's clean."

"Thank you," Davy gratefully breathed, scooping it up to examine it better.

Micky offered a smile, but a note of sadness was scrawled across his face. As hazy as Davy's mind was, he was still able to pick it up.

"Why did you toss it out?" Davy pried.

Micky let out a bitter laugh. "Mom wanted me to get rid of that old thing a long time ago, said that I'd be labeled as a long haired weirdo if I wore it. She swore she'd disown me if I ever put it on, so she took stuff in her own hands," he explained.

"I don't think it's right for me to take it, then," said Davy as he handed it back. "You clearly don't want to part with it. I think you should keep it."

"Thanks, but," Micky refused, "it would just end up back in there again. It'd better if it someone who needs it uses it."

Davy gave him a half shrug. "I'll pick up a coat somewhere else, and you never know with this. This is something real special, and if you want to keep it, I think you have every reason to. You never know, you might need it someday."

"Keep talking like that and my mom won't like you so much," he laughed before taking the poncho. " I, myself, am deeply jealous of your dastardly charisma. Okay, I'll keep it, but only if you go back to sleep- and teach me more about the guitar when you get up?"

"Yeah, alright. It's a deal," Davy breathily chuckled. Micky gave him a cheeky smile and moved away to allow David some peace.

Peaceful stillness rested between them, only occasionally interrupted by a light twang from the guitar. With this, Davy was eventually lulled to sleep.

Midday was scorching- again. This time, the room was completely silent, with the exception of the white noise outdoors. Beams of light broke through the window and hit Davy in the eyes.

Crust had formed underneath the boy's eyelids; a dull headache wrapped around his head, along with a bandage. However, overall, he could clearly focus once more. That was all he needed to get back on the road again. He momentarily forgot the promise to Micky and slid onto the cool tile. His entire body shuddered as his bare toes touched the ground.

Davy sluggishly maneuvered to the door and leaned against the wall for support. The door thundered open and sent Davy sprawling backwards.

Micky carried a few boxes into the room but had to kick the door to get it to open. He drew a sharp breath, hoping that he hadn't disturbed his guest too much. Straining his neck to get a better look, he found the bed empty. His heart leapt into his throat as he frantically searched for Davy.

"Man?" Micky asked, still not knowing his name.

"I-" Davy began. He ducked as Micky swung around and almost hit him with the boxes.

"Little buddy?" Micky swung again.

Davy slapped his hands onto the boxes and pushed them down. "I'm right here," he then informed, "and it's Davy, by the way."

Micky's spirits automatically lifted and he tried to set his boxes down upon the floor.

The sides of the cardboard were clearly marked in an untidy scrawl, "Micky's old clothes".

"Hey, Davy, I'm Micky," the man properly introduced himself. "I thought you might want a shower and some clean clothes." He gave the boxes a small tap. "Come on, the girls will be back soon, and then, the bathroom will be tied up!"

Without waiting for an objection, Micky opened up the boxes and began to sift through a few things, holding them up to Davy's figure every now and then to see how it would fit.

Eventually, he landed on a set of a yellow button-up and denim slacks that looked like they would fit perfectly.

"What do you think?" Micky asked, albeit a little rhetorically. Without waiting any longer, he ushered David out of the door and into the main apartment.

It was a lot cleaner than anything that Davy had seen in a long time, even though a few stains and cracked antiques popped up every so often. Davy admired the room as he descended from a white staircase, both the dining area and the living room in view at once. Micky's mother was clearly prideful in maintaining a well washed atmosphere, as evident through the smell of lemons and shiny hardwood. The walls were a pretty, faint blue color that complimented nautical decorations such as a life preserver. A traditional, light brown piano resided on the bottom floor, in the corner where the staircase met the second floor. A set of windows on the opposing wall gave a terrific view of the outside world, blocked only partly by the pale patchwork couch in front of it. To the left was a door that led to the stairs down to the beach, and beside of that, a poster of the Beatles with a record player beneath it. He felt particularly out of place as soon as they reached the living room.

Micky turned over to a closet at the top of the stairs and opened up the door, taking out a towel, a washcloth, and a brand new razor. All of these items were then thrust into Davy's arms. "Bathroom is at the end of the hall and to the right," he informed. "Take all of the time you need. Eh, my mom, she wanted to talk with you before you had the chance to leave, so-"

"So... You're stalling until she gets here?" Davy asked with some amusement.

Micky merely shook his head and tried to lead Davy over to the room. "Come on, I wouldn't do that!" He insisted. "But be sure to be in there for at least half an hour or so, okay?" With that, he shut the door back and left Davy on his own once more. Peace at last.

A hot shower was exactly what Davy had needed. It had been weeks since he had a proper cleaning, much to his, and everyone else's, dismay. Even if Micky hadn't insisted upon him taking up a long time, he probably would have lasted in there as long as he did. As the warm sprits hit his back and the soap washed away all of the dirt and grime, he felt as though he was washing away a past life, an old man. In his place was a blank canvas, fresh, new, and ready to be used to create once more. After stepping out of the glass stall, he found that the shaving razor was cold, and it stung. This was, naturally, a necessary evil to scrape off the remnants of a lowly lifeform. Though he couldn't help but to thing that he was putting on a façade instead of extinguishing one. After all, you can give a ruffian a tuxedo, but at the end of the day, he is still a ruffian, not a wealthy entrepreneur. The only question was, which one was Davy? At his core, was he destined to be a lowly beggar or something more substantial? Regardless of which, he came out of the bathroom looking like the baby-faced British boy that came to America filled with hope, only with slightly longer hair. He could live with that for now, and after running a comb through his damp hair, he emerged with a steamy cloud trailing his feet.

Micky's mother and sister had returned by that point, which was intended, of course. The sister, only younger by a couple of years, had a lighter blonde color to her hair with only flecks of brown sprinkled in. His mother was a bustling and lively brunette, like a woman well-seasoned in entertainment. Both had their hair cropped above the shoulders and a light wave complimented their styles. All three members of the family were sitting upon the faded blue couch and loveseat set.

The mother turned around and clapped her hands with enthusiasm as she got a good look at Davy. "Why!" she cried. "Doesn't he clean up remarkably? Oh, I just knew that there was a little gem hidden beneath all of that dirt!" She stood from her seat and walked over to embrace the young man, dashing aside all formalities. Micky merely sat back with a bit of a mischievous smirk as he watched them.

Davy hardly blinked in surprise as he was enclosed in the woman's surprisingly strong hold, but he managed to politely wrap an arm around her as well and give her a stiff pat on the back.

"Isn't he just a darling, Coco?" the mother asked her daughter. "To think that he's come out of this with hardly a scratch or a concussion or- oh, let's not dwell on our plight. Now dear-"

"Davy," the little Brit managed to choke out.

"Now David, please let me apologize on behalf of my son for what happened last night. I can assure you that his intentions were good, but things got a little out of hand," the woman informed, finally tearing herself away from Davy and holding him at arm's length. She paused for a moment, however, to get a better look at the boy, and she noticed something that made her lightly gasp and place a hand over her lips. "You poor, poor, boy. I can't imagine what you've been through before you got here, but don't you worry one bit, darling. As long as you're under our roof, you'll have a safe shelter and food and warmth."

Of course, this aging woman had thought about all of this before she got a proper look at the boy. She was nearly worried to death when Micky came storming the house the night before, thinking that a burglar or something terrible had taken ahold of their home. However, she couldn't imagine anything worse when she saw the little man's lifeless form over the bins. Even through all of the scruff, his youthfulness shone brightly through, and it was clear that he was close to, if not exactly, her son's age. Judging from his state and appearance, she jumped to dramatic conclusions about his situation, and they might not have been too far from the truth. An overwhelming wave of pity washed over her as she considered his circumstances, even though he had blatantly tried to steal from them. She couldn't help but to picture Micky in the same situation and how she'd feel if he ended up that way. Instead of condemning the boy for his actions, and since her son had nearly 'killed' him, she empathized with him.

"Come with us," Mother commanded, seizing Davy by the hand and drawing him over to the little circular table in the kitchen. "You must be absolutely famished. Give me a minute here, and we'll all lunch together, alright?"

Davy was about to protest once more, but then Micky crept up behind him and gave him a firm clap on the shoulder. He then leaned in and whispered into the Brit's ear, "I'd sit and stay a while if I were you. She's not gonna want you to go so easily, and it's better to handle her when she's bubbly about having guests than when she's stressed about letting them go."

Davy allowed his shoulders to sink in grief, but he gave a subtle nod in submission to their terms. Micky sat down at the dinner table beside him while Coco lingered behind on the couch for a while. The lunch being prepared was, of course, nothing too fancy. A few nice sandwiches should have been enough to satisfy an older lady and three young people.

A deep, rumbling growl was uncontrollably emitted from Davy's stomach once Micky's mother toasted the bread to their sandwiches and the wave of scent hit his nostrils. Though he tried to ignore and conceal it, the sound was unmistakable, and Mother allowed the corner of her lips to curl slightly upwards.

Mother gave Davy his meal first, of course, and like the rest of them, he received a hot ham and cheese with cool pickles in between. Though the little Brit wanted to savor every bit of the delicious meal, his hunger quickly won over him, and he was halfway finished by the time Mother set down the last plate. She didn't seem to mind his quick, abrasive means of scarfing down his food and was, quite honestly, not surprised at all by it.

"So, David," she addressed as he was taking his first bite into the second half. She, herself, had not touched her own. "I hear from Micky that you've been a travelling musician? That you know how to play guitar?"

Davy glanced back up at her for a moment, taking time to slow down and actually swallow. "Yes," he answered, "but I don't know about calling me 'travelling'. I set up in the parks around here, and when I do, I usually have my maracas, not a guitar."

"And, do you live around here?" Mother probed. It became apparent that there was a subject that she wanted to ease into.

Davy gulped a little and stumbled as he answered, "Well. I suppose that you could say that."

"What do you mean?" Mother urged.

"I live around here, there, everywhere, really. There's no place that I'd say I can come back to and stay every night," the young man confessed. Those appeared to be just the words that Mother was looking for.

"I also hear that you've been willing to help Micky out with his music," the woman continued. "Now, we don't really have a lot as far as money goes, and I'm sure that it would be a bit difficult for you to run back and forth on foot between the parks or whenever you are in town and here."

"What are you saying?" Davy warily wondered.

"I'm saying that there is a place for you here to stay if you're willing to tutor Micky in your arts," Mother clarified.

Davy was absolutely stunned by the offer, along with Micky, who sat flabbergasted beside of him. This was a woman jumping the gun and forming such a high trust in a stranger, and there was no doubt that it was out of pity- and infatuation. Anybody could look at Davy and tell that he couldn't have been a creep or a thug in disguise, but there are certain situations where you just never know.

"I- I don't know what to say," Davy confessed, his cheeks quickly becoming hot under pressure. "But, I suppose that it wouldn't hurt-"

"Excellent!" chimed Mother, ecstatically clapping her hands once more. "You can share

a room with Micky."

Micky choked on his hot ham.


	4. Saturday's Child

"Okay, ah, maybe if we divide it up like this," Micky recommended, turning the body pillow to the side and having it cut down the center of the bed.

"There's no way, man. It's a twin size bed," Davy muttered in concern.

Micky studied the sections once more, placing a hand underneath his chin in thought. "Okay," he determined. "If we move it like this..." He turned the pillow horizontally and pushed it closer to the foot of the bed until there was only a small sliver of mattress still visible at the end. "Then I can lay on the top half normally, and you can lay right across."

"What?!" Davy asked, outraged. "You must be joking! That's gerrymandering! I'm not that little, and your feet will be on me back the entire night!"

This argument had been going on for quite a while. Unless one of them wanted to give up the privilege of a warm bed for a lumpy old couch, they were going to have to share. The result was at least a solid two hours of establishing basic boundaries with a stuffed barricade.

"Okay, you know what?" Micky asked, picking up the body pillow. "Forget the pillow. I'm tired and I just want to sleep." He promptly threw it across the room, landing right at the foot of his hi-hat and almost causing it to tumble. He then marched right up to the bed and threw back part of the covers. Davy stood up to the challenge, tromping towards the bed and pulling back a section of the covers as well.

"Well, I'm tired, too, and I just want to sleep," Davy readily informed.

Micky, flustered and frustrated from the previous day and lack of sleep, sat down upon the mattress and laid down. "Great, I'm glad we've come to an understanding, buddy," he finally accepted. "I'm going to bed."

"I couldn't agree more, pal!" Davy nodded, doing the same. He lay across the bed with a huff, trying to keep as close to the edge as possible.

Micky reached over to flip a switch from the wall, and the two were swiftly surrounded by darkness. He, however, was not going to feel uncomfortable in his own bed by the new situation. He took up just as much room as he would have if he were on his own.

"Good night!" Micky hollered over at Davy, a little louder than was necessary.

"G'Night!" Davy shouted in return.

After that, the two spoke no longer, but it took quite a while for the both of them to fall asleep. Davy was completely swamped with thought, his mind whirling with the speed of changes that were coming his way. It all could have been a lot worse, he figured. In fact, if he counted, the good probably outweighed the bad that night. He wasn't sleeping out in the open, where any dangerous criminal could have been coming his way. Some people actually expressed some care or concern about him. The next meal he'd be having wasn't scraped up from junk, and he was guaranteed to have one. He still had his maracas, along with a next set of clothes.

Like counting sheep, Davy lulled himself to sleep that night while naming his blessings.

Being in music was a new frontier, and at the time, Micky had only wanted to get his feet wet with it. Sure, he had once played drums for a garage band up until the end of high school, but since his buddies up and left him for college, things had toned down dramatically. Micky either had to take a new approach to his career or be swallowed in the midst of a dying occupation. Either way, he still ended up living with his mother, but needless to say, he decided to pursue a different form of art: acting.

By day, excluding Sundays, Micky would scope out auditions, casting calls, and anything else that would help launch him into the industry. At night, he would rehearse snippets of script as well as dabble with the drums or the guitar, if only to prevent his skills from becoming rusty. Before he met Davy, however, they had proven to be of little use. The industry either wanted you to play, or they wanted you to act, never both. That being said, the highest job that he was able to keep before then was as a set lighting technician. It can only be imagined what became of that.

Even after the arrival of his new roommate, or subtly adopted 'brother', Micky continued to grasp for the limelight, and this is exactly the kind of mess that he got himself into on the following week.

Monday

The night before had been mildly uncomfortable. Even with skinny little Davy pressing himself as far to the edge as possible, that didn't change the fact that there were two people trying to sleep in the same twin bed, and it was exceptionally harder for Davy to feel relaxed like this. Eventually, around the early hours of the morning, fatigue overcame these differing interests and both were out like a light. Unfortunately, this also meant that their rest cut deep into Micky's morning job hunts, as the shrill cry of the alarm reached deaf ears. Micky absent mindedly slung an arm over to the nightstand and stopped the bells from ringing. Five more minutes of sleep past the time soon turned into five hours, and even then, neither of them would have awaken if it weren't for Coco.

"Micky!" Coco cried as she came crashing into the room around noon. "Come on, if you want to take the car you've got to do it now, because I'm going to need it in a couple hours.

Micky popped his head up gazed out to his sister with half shut eyes. A ring of midday sunlight was streaming in around her, and his sensitive, dark-accustomed peepers weren't ready for it.

"What are you talking about?" he whined. "Your appointment wasn't until two, wasn't it?"

"Micky, it's twelve o'clock. You've got two hours to do your thing," she bluntly informed, crossing her arms around her chest.

Micky had to take a moment to register her words, but once it clicked, his exhaust was automatically shed away. "Twelve o'- What?!" he squawked, loud enough to jostle Davy awake, too. He hastened to scramble out of the bed and scramble over to the pile of clean clothing in the corner. Articles of clothes went flying over his shoulder and around every crevice of the garage as he hunted for a rather colorful sweater.

"What's this, what's-" Davy ranted with a slight start. Then, he caught a glimpse of Micky, who he had all but forgotten within the night.

"Maybe you should take Davy with you," Coco suggested, still a little wary of their newcomer.

The family housed two cars altogether. One was to be used for everyday activities such as shopping, jobs hunts, et cetera, and the other was absolutely and under no uncertain terms off limits to the others in the household other than Father. It was, of course, a brand new car and love interest that he had purchased some time ago. Thus, while Micky, Coco, Mother, and now Davy had to use a rusty old clunker, a pristine black Pontiac GTO was tucked away, untouched by the world.

It took the two boys at least half an hour to get the available car started. After a series of engine checking, tool jamming, hood slamming, and momentary tears of frustration (Not exactly in that order) the car roared to life with a mechanical screech. Not wanting to rely on hope to get them through, the two boys ran from the front of the car and thrust open the doors, flinging themselves into the seats. Without wasting anymore time, Micky shifted gears, set the vehicle into drive, and burned a bit of rubber as he tore off down the street.

As they drove down the typically sun filled drives of palm trees and sand, Micky kept a sharp eye out for- well- anything, whether it was signs, posters, advertisements, or simply people chatting about the region. Sure, he might have had a few places in mind to stop at, but it was the start of a new week, meaning that there was fresh material out in Hollywood somewhere. As he veered around the area, scoping for signs, Davy sat on the passenger side, trying to dig through a few newspapers that they had picked up, but it found it rather hard to concentrate when he had to tug at Micky every few seconds to get him to pull back into their lane. Not only that, but the time constraints were making both of them, mostly Micky, anxious.

It was hard to concentrate when you're desperate and marching to a ticking clock.

They looped through town center, the shopping districts, around the studio areas, and even the little ice cream shop run by old man Wilson, but despite their efforts and eager attitudes, nothing showed up. The area was completely dead that Monday, with auditions scheduled that Micky had already seen or taken a crack at. They went home empty handed that evening, with nothing to look forward to other than Mother's meatloaf.

Tuesday

Failure from the day before had dug Micky into a slump for the rest of the afternoon. He was mentally berating himself for letting the opportunities slip by his hands so easily, as he knew that they were just waiting there, staring him right in the face. The young man threatened to not get his face out of the pillow the next morning, but somehow, Davy and Coco managed to convince him that he wasn't going to be able to seize any chances if he locked himself away in the darkness with a Coca-Cola and a bag of chips. Later, he'd be beyond joyed for his decision, but only for a moment.

Micky was on foot in the city this time, and still, Davy had still insisted upon coming with him. After all, he'd much rather be outside, making something of himself rather than sitting in their room, letting it seep in that he was mooching off of a perfectly good family that had no business with him, and the shopping district was always a nice place to visit, even if you didn't have money, which they didn't.

While Micky was talking with a few of the locals in front of one of the department stores, Davy took a seat on one of the park-like benches. He sat there in his thoughts for a while, wondering, for there were actually several places that Micky could have shown up or signed up for. For some reason, however, he often appeared to be stalling or hesitant at points, as if he either didn't want to do them at all or he was waiting for something more.

A man sitting beside of Davy was engrossed with a newspaper as the boy straightened out his thoughts. After so long, he folded up his pages, stood, and left. This would normally have been dismissed or unnoticed by Davy, but he was sitting right beside of a trashcan, where the man lazily threw his paper away. Davy glanced up for a moment before, an old habit dying hard, he reached in to extract the pages. It was marked with that day's date, which he supposed was a good thing.

Micky waved goodbye to the people he was conversing with, who were unable to provide him with important information, as usual. When he walked up to the park bench, Davy was digging through his paper, and he glanced up as the other young man came rolling around.

"Hey, Micky, look at this," Davy called out, gesturing him over. "Casting calls. They're looking for extras and mains over at Chaney Studios."

"What for?" Micky warily wondered, which was always his first question.

"Doesn't look like it's going to be a big, million dollar one," Davy pointed out. "Probably why they're having calls in the first place. I think it's another monster movie."

With a deep gasp of surprise, Micky snatched up the paper from Davy's hands. He poured over the text with delight, appearing as though this was just the miracle that he'd been waiting for. The boy held the paper high in the air after he finished, treating it as though he was celebrating a victory, and the paper was a trophy.

Wednesday

Micky's enthusiasm had been greatly boosted from the day before, and he would have been trotting around, dancing through the house, telling everybody he knew and their mother about it. Alas, the casting call was short notice, and he only had until Thursday to pick up a monologue and run with it. Nobody in the house saw him on Wednesday, except for one moment when Davy dared to enter his room, having avoided the place entirely until bedtime.

Micky was deeply engrossed in the notebook pages that he had scrawled across, but his frustration was evident from the creases shown on his forehead. He hardly noticed when Davy came into the room, and the little Brit had half a mind to slip out, deciding that the couch would be the best place to sleep that night. When he saw the complications that Micky was putting up with, he couldn't help but to be curious.

"Say you did make it as a bigshot actor," Davy mused aloud. It was a curiosity that never struck him until that moment. "What would you do then?"

Micky slowly turned his head to look back to Davy, and then he let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't know," he truthfully answered. "What does anybody else do? Buy big houses and move somewhere far, far away and stuff. I don't really care too much for money. You've probably noticed that by now. What I want to do is tell stories, entertain, give off a piece of myself. I can't do that if I just don't dig what I'm working for, man. It doesn't work that way. That's why I don't jump at every offer for an audition. I want to be a part of something that I will love, not something just so I can have something."

"You think you'll love a low-budget creature feature?" Davy wondered, curious instead of skeptical.

Micky gave him a doubtless nod.

Thursday

For once in the past week, Micky was completely and wholly alone. The big day had finally come, after an excruciating two day wait, and when he started his short drive into the city, he was, more-or-less, completely confident in himself and of his dialogue. By confident, of course, he meant that his knuckles were white as he gripped onto the wheel.

They weren't even meeting at the actual studios for this audition. They were scheduled to sit out at some building on the outskirts of town, where it was quieter and easier to host a large crowd, and man, there was a larger crowd than expected. Since it was only going to be a tiny feature, Micky suspected only a handful of people. Unfortunately, in the wide parking lot, he could hardly find a space that didn't leave a long, treacherous walk to the front doors. Anybody would have been excited about extra and main casting, even if it weren't for a big feature, and that situation certainly proved that fact.

A convention center was being used for the location, and a small lobby was where they were holding the ones auditioning, giving those people numbered stickers and places to sit there while they were waiting. A train of hopefuls snaked out almost towards the entrance, and Micky was halfway through the door before he was officially standing in that line. The desk might have only been a few feet away, but it felt like a century while he waited for his turn. After this eternity of signing names and confirming contact information, Micky was at the front, his paperwork ready, a smile on his face, and a fresh #64 slapped onto his chest. Now all he had to do was wait for the next two hours until they called his number, but that was going to be easy, right? Good thing nobody at home needed the car that day.

Micky watched as the people in the lobby were being picked off, one by one, moving like the seconds ticking away on a clock. With every new number that was announced, Micky couldn't help but to feel a slight pang in his heart as he realized that they were one more person closer to calling him out.

"Number sixty-four," came the dreaded word from a monotonous woman with a short bob and cat-eye specs. Micky shakily raised a hand to indicate that he was present, and this woman game him a quick, curt nod before gesturing for him to follow and turning sharply upon her heels.

The walls felt like they were closing in with every step that Micky took. By the time that they reached the end of the hall, he was feeling quite claustrophobic and the collar around his neck was almost unbearably tight. The woman in front of his opened up the door and allowed Micky to go first, and the boy simply couldn't shake the feeling that he was making a grave mistake.

Friday

Micky didn't return home the evening before. It were as though he and the car had disappeared off of the face of the earth. As worried and concerned as Davy and Coco were, nobody was as stressed about it as Mother was. She paced back and forth in front of the living room couch, considering to either go out and look for Micky first or go right ahead and contact the authorities.

"That's it," Mother determined, slamming her hands down on the kitchen table, "I'm going to go ahead and call it in. Who knows what's happened to him from last night to today?! I've got a bad feeling about this, and I want some answers."

"No! Don't do that!" Coco exclaimed in shock.

"Please, Ma'am," pleaded Davy, hopping off of the couch, "at least let us look for him. He could be around the corner for all we know. You could be just luring the coppers into some sort of wild goose chase, and then we'll have even more problems on our 'ands."

Mother seemed to ponder this suggestion for a moment before turning back to face the clock over the stove. It read to be nearly ten o'clock in the morning.

"I," she started, jabbing her finger in direction of the clock, "am giving you both an hour. If my baby boy's not safely in this house by eleven, I'm calling them. No excuses."

"Thank you," Davy nodded back to her as he stood. The young man then tried to gently take a hold of Coco's elbow and pull her along with him. Begrudgingly, she got up off the couch at the Brit man's will and followed him to the outside world.

Finding Micky turned out to be a bit harder than they originally planned, for they thought too much upon where he could have been. They wanted to scour the region high and low, digging through every nook and cranny until the boy showed up. With such a broad scope, neither of the two even realized that he was only a stone's throw away.

Micky actually wasn't too far away from the house, on a small road that led from the subdivision to the city. He tucked the car away, behind an overgrown billboard sign that was advertising milk, real estate, or some sort of new modern appliance. The static-jarred old radio was at full blast and tuned to one of the local top hits stations. Micky, himself, was sitting on top of the hood, picking at both his fingernails and his thoughts as music rattled his brain.

Davy and Coco eventually found the billboard, after passing the sign at least three times, of course. They had to do a double take, just to make sure that it was the energetic young man sitting there. Davy was a little unsettled to see Micky in such a sloppy, careless state, deciding to wait at a distance, but Coco took him head on, as though she had seen this a thousand times before, which she probably had. Right away, she knew that something went terribly wrong at his auditions, and he didn't believe that he was going to make it in. Most of the time, however, this feeling proved to be true, as the only time anybody ever contacted him back about an audition was in an attempt to get him to join the filmmaking crew rather than the cast.

Micky continued to examine his hands, not even noticing that his sister was briskly approaching him. Regardless of this, she proceeded to climb up to the hood and sit down beside of him. Davy spectated from afar, not able to hear the words that she was muttering into his ear. Whatever it was that she said, it only seemed to upset Micky more.

"No, man, no!" Micky loudly told her, running a hand through his hair. The shortness of his voice and the fixed gaze in his eyes only informed his companions that he was on the brink of tears as it was. Judging from the dark circles and the red, puffy rings around his sockets, he had already done so.

Coco said one more thing to him, which only caused the boy to turn his back to her and pluck off a leaf from the shrubbery behind the sign. The young woman, herself, became irritated by his behavior, and instead of trying again, she merely hopped down to join Davy once again.

"Just leave him to sulk," she bitterly told the little Brit. "He does this every time. He'll eventually get tired of it, straighten up, and come back home to try again another day."

She was about to trot back towards the house, but Davy held his hand out to stop her for a moment. "Wait," he told her, feeling a little hesitant, "I don't think that we should. You heard what your mother said. We can't come home without him but say we've seen him. Why don't you let me try to talk to him?"

Coco raised a curious eyebrow at the recommendation, but she heaved a heavy sigh and merely shrugged her shoulders. "Knock yourself out, Babe, but I'm telling you. I've seen this many, many times before, and if he doesn't want to come out of this slump on his own, he's not going to come out of this slump," she informed. "But you're on your own. He doesn't want to see me at all right now, so I'm heading back."

True to her promise, Coco started walking down the street once again, leaving Davy, Micky, and, from the sounds of it, The Beatles to themselves. The young Brit turned over to look at Micky, who was clearly in earshot of his and Coco's conversation, but the dear young actor hadn't moved at all. In fact, he seemed rather intent on examining the leaf in his hands.

Davy tried to be casual, as Coco had been, and hauled himself up to the hood with a little bit of a dramatic flair. If only Micky had been looking that way to enjoy the show.

"I'm guessing that it didn't turn out like you wanted it to?" Davy inquired.

Micky laughed a little at that, his face contorting in pain of betraying his actual feelings.

"I killed it, man, and not in a good way, either," he softly muttered.

"What happened?" Davy prompted.

"The usual…" Micky breathed in return. "Walked in, threw a bit of my personality at them, just a little. Well, actually, maybe I threw in too much, but, I could see it on their faces that they didn't like me. They didn't even flinch when I gave them that monologue. I worked so hard on that thing, and I thought that I had something great.

"A right masterpiece written in two days," Davy agreed with a small nod of his head.

Micky waved the comment aside and continued, "And at the very end, they didn't even look at each other, but I'm pretty sure that one of them yawned and the other just said, 'thank you, we'll keep you posted'. What kind of an answer is that? Keep me posted. It's not like we're watching a race and the standings change every couple of seconds. What are they supposed to keep me posted about?" He paused here to take a shaky breath. "You know, I even tried to do my famous werewolf impression and nothing, just nothing. I pour my heart and soul into each of these things, and all I get is either a 'no' or 'why don't you come and operate some lights for us?' They should just say, 'sorry kid, you stink, and we're trying to give you some sort of compensation.'"

"Come on, Mick, you're not that bad," Davy attempted to persuade him.

"Not 'that' bad. Then how bad am I, Davy?" Micky sarcastically asked of his friend. "If I'm 'not that bad' then why hasn't anything happened to me? Why is nobody wanting to sign me up for their movies?"

"Maybe you haven't found the right one," Davy informed. "All you've got to do is dust yourself off and go find another one. You'll eventually get there."

"No way," Micky groaned, lips twitching downwards. "I'm not trying again because what's the point? Why do I keep going back there when I know what'll happen. Why do I feel like something's missing every time I get up and try again?"

Davy remained unwavering. "Because maybe this isn't what you're meant to do," he suggested. "I've seen what you do Micky, and you've got great skills with acting. But I've also seen you on your drums and a little with the guitar. When I watch you with music, there's just something- I don't know what, but there's something there that isn't when you act. You nod your head along with the beat, and it's like you just melt into the tunes, and it's perfect. With acting, you just put on a mask. You don't become what you're trying to make, but I do believe that you do with music."

Micky made a move to get up and away from the car as Davy was talking, not wanting to hear his explanation, not wanting to hear the truth. "But-" he protested, "But I love storytelling. Explain that to me, then. I want to tell stories."

"And you're saying that songs don't have stories?" Davy questioned. He had Micky on that one. The boy couldn't scrap up an answer at first, and to prevent the silence from growing, Davy escaped from his position on the car and walked alongside him. "Listen, how about we drive down to the corner, have a couple hamburgers and shakes, and we can think this through, alright?"

Wilson's Ice Cream Parlor was only a short drive away, and though they didn't solve anything through their conversation, Micky would admit that he felt a little better from letting out all of his feelings and frustrations. They did keep the radio on full blast as they drove down all of the rows of tall trees, windows down, and every so often, they could sneak a glimpse of the ocean, shiny, blue, and playful out towards infinity. These two boys, now in better spirits, sang at the top of their lungs, almost screaming out the lyrics to the songs on the station, and it was nothing short of a blast. They had nearly forgotten why they went out on a drive in the first place, as the sound of the wind whistling through their hair drowned out all other thoughts.

By the time they reached the little parlor, they were practically dancing beside of themselves, and they stomped right into the joint with windswept hair and ecstatic smiles on their faces. It was perfectly fine to the staff, of course, as they paid no mind to the long haired youth, and, in fact, welcomed them. Micky strolled on over to the front register at a sort of bar, which looked just as it did when the shop opened up in the thirties. A considerable amount of teens and young adults had gathered in there already, eating and dancing along to the King on the jukebox.

"Excuse me, dear sir," Micky addressed the employee with an exaggerated accent. "Do beg pardon the interruption but we need two chocolate malts and a couple of juicy cow patties, alright?" Davy could barely hold back his snickering.

"Of course," the employee answered, not wanting to break his courtesy. "That'll be ninety-one cents altogether."

Micky and Davy easily paid a dollar their meal, insisting that they keep the change, before going to sit down at one of the stark red and black booths near the front window. Davy was jokingly singing one of his folk tunes and doing a little jig as they made their way over there. Micky gave him a loud, boisterous laugh, and it only seemed to escalate when Davy tripped over his foot at the last minute, launching himself down into the cushions.

"Gee, you ever think about becoming a professional?" Micky inquired as he took the set of seats in front of Davy.

Davy readjusted himself into a sitting position and comfortably folded his hands over the table. "Always," he informed with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. "That's why I wanted to come to America in the first place, to be in entertainment. Acting was always an option, but I what I really wanted to do is music. What I ended up doing is a lot of odd and end jobs here or there. I only just started playing music in the park when I found you and your family."

"Could you not find any gigs?" Micky wondered in surprise, actually being able to level with Davy on this scale.

"Nobody would want to hire me," Davy answered, his enthusiasm dying down a bit. "It's hard being a solo artist, because you're the only one that they can poke and prod with their questions. I also didn't 'ave a real instrument. Might as well be paying the customers for their karaoke."

"Is it really that bad?" Micky asked.

"For me, it is," Davy quickly informed. "But don't let that scare you. You'd probably be able to get a gig no problem with your drumming skills."

Micky heartily laughed. "I doubt anybody wants a drummer beating on his skins for an hour, no strings, and he's singing, too."

"Find yourself a group, then," Davy recommended. "Go out Saturday or something. Try to put yourself out as a drummer this time. I guarantee that somebody will want to snatch you up by the end of the day."

"What about you?" Micky inquired.

"Me?" Davy repeated, tilting his head in a light confusion.

A sweet little waitress in a frilly red uniform came up to them with a tray of their order. "Two burgers and malts?" she questioned. After Micky gave her an absent minded nod, she began to put their order down in front of them.

"Aren't you going to go out and find a band, too?" Micky clarified.. "Or are you just going to keep shaking maracas in parks for the rest of your life?"

Davy raised a suspicious eyebrow. "You're trying to pull something," he simply answered.

Micky put a hand over his heart, mockingly wounded. "Oh! Alright, you've got me," he confessed. "But you've shown me a few things on the guitar, and from what I've heard, you're actually pretty good yourself. Let's face it, the answer is staring us right in the face. Why go out searching for snobby, high and mighty bands when we can start fresh, with our own ideas, and form our own thing? We don't have to struggle with other people because it'll be just us! A duo! Besides, you've got a regular Paul McCartney English man vibe to you that chicks will go nuts over. They'll have to let us in!"

As much as Micky made the idea sound appealing, Davy still seemed uncertain about the idea. "I- I don't know, man," he mumbled.

"Come on, what have you got to lose? I don't think you've got anything other than your shirt now," Micky pointed out.

"How about you give me a day to think about it? I need to work this out," Davy asked of the man.

As much as Micky hated waiting, he thought that he'd better agree to the Brit's terms.

"So we'll know on Saturday, right?" he presumed, wanting to be sure.

"Yeah, Saturday," Davy confirmed, taking a spoon to his malt.


	5. Papa Gene's Blues

(A/N: It's time for the return of Peter and Papa Nez! Before we get started, I would just like to give a shoutout to

NegativeZero [your weekly comments always make me happy :-)]

IAttackOnTeenTitansI [So glad you're enjoying it!]

Dana Tales [Your comment caught me completely off guard, but dear, you've absolutely made my week!])

The Davy and Micky duo apparently launched without a hitch.

Davy couldn't turn down Micky after the offer that he gave him, and upon further thought, he realized that teaming up was probably the best option- for both of them. Finally, with a drummer and guitarist, they had a foundation set and an appealing pitch to the venues. True, they were a peculiar combination, but that would have been easily overlooked once they showed the managers what they could do. Plus, they weren't asking for a lot of money, for this operation was more of a sideline job to start, which made them even better in the eyes of these producers. They should have been the pick of the patch for the local joints.

Within the first couple of days of job hunting, they landed interviews with a couple of the restaurants in the area. They were guaranteed to gain at least one of them, and the boys, themselves, became stubbornly confident in their capabilities. Alas, even with one good run clearly in their sights, another barrier was coming up between them and their success.

"What do you mean we need a permit?" Micky angrily asked from his bed. He had a magazine in his hands and was reading when Davy came in with a newspaper underneath his arm.

"It says here," began Davy, taking a seat on the stool behind the drums, "that there's a new city ordinance, to take place at once. Open, public performances of any location are not permitted without a paid permit from the town hall. The permit must be reissued for every new performance. There are no exceptions. With this, we are hoping to organize local music and let it be-"

"They're doing this on purpose!" Micky argued, standing from his bed. "It's not a restriction to make more organized shows. It's a ban on rock n' roll! Think about it. The only places around here that serves long haired weirdos like us and let us play our music are the small, poor places scattered around here or there. They won't be able to afford a permit! Only those lousy, high-end joints will be able to pick up players, and even then, they're not going to pick up people like us. That, or we have to pay for the permit ourselves- and that'll cost more than what we make!"

Davy was starting to pick up on this. "And if they can't afford a permit, the musicians can't play. Without music, nobody will want to go to these places, either, and it will be driving them out of business. It will drive all of us out of business," he deduced.

"Exactly!" cheered Micky. "There will be less places blasting out live rock, if there will be any left at all! This is exactly what they're trying to get at. They're trying to cripple our existence!" He became so filled with emotion that his voice raised two octaves on the final word, leaving a sort of squeak. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he thought aloud, "Wait, I've got it! We'll just move to the next town and do our business over there!"

"That's ridiculous," Davy scolded. "We'd never make enough money to move us down there as it is. Besides, we're not the only area doing it. Practically 'alf of the state is putting this into use! It says right 'ere. The closest places NOT doing it are Los Angeles and Malibu. We'd have a 'ard time paying even if we had a full band!"

"At this rate, we'll never get off of the ground!" Micky bemoaned. With a quick turn, he stormed over to extract his coat off of a hook on the wall. "You know what? I'm not going to put up with this. Any of this. We have a right to play our music wherever we want, whenever we want to!"

"What are you going to do?" Davy inquired, walking over and appearing to be about to follow.

"What any respectable, law-abiding citizen would do in a time of crisis," Micky plainly answered. "Show up at town hall with pitchforks and riot."

They weren't the only ones who had this idea. Any local rock musician in their right mind who didn't want to go all the way to Nevada or a rich city for a gig was on their way to the central district to pitch in a complaint. However, only a few brave souls in the peaceful protest actually dared to enter the building to say something about it. Among this small handful were, of course, Micky, Davy, and the Pelicans.

A mass of musicians from every background had shown up at the front of the town hall. The faces of the youth as well as the older were thrown into a mix, but they all had one thing in common: anger over the new decree. It seemed that the rock and rollers weren't the only ones being effected.

A few guards had gathered out in front of the doors to the building, trying to keep the mad crowd back as much as possible, with only a few managing to get through the doors and cause a ruckus from the inside.

A couple of the Pelicans managed to get in, but only because they were part of the first wave of people coming to protest. A few others, both soloists and groups, were trying to find out the same information, complain about the same problems as they were, but with everybody trying to speak all at once, their attempts were simply shouted in vain.

"Come on, just let us talk to somebody!" Dicky shouted over the crowd. The young man had wedged his way through with Peter in hopes that he could be the first to talk some sense into somebody. The only thing he ended up doing is scaring the poor, gray-headed secretary at the front desk when he stumbled forward, accidentally slamming his hands against her desk.

"Everyone, everyone please," the meek woman pleader, barely audible against the crowd. She placed a hand over her hammering heart and stood up, trying to back away from the miniature mob. "You can't go in without an appointment! Oh dear, Mr. Hughes!"

Peter tried to put a hand on top of Dicky's shoulder and pull him away from the woman. All they needed right then was a fine for attempted assault, and these high and mighty figures would know how to pin it on them, too.

"You okay, man?" Peter inquired.

Dicky gave his bassist a small grunt in assurance before picking himself up and dusting off his coat. He straightened up his collar and ran a hand down his hair, trying to pertain some civility. Though, that would probably to be rather difficult, as the chanting around him was getting louder and harsher by the second.

Before things were taken too far, the formidable Mr. Hughes showed up onto the scene. He was a tall, broad shouldered gentleman in a snazzy suit who looked as though he'd never smiled a day in his life. Just from the cold, unfeeling stare and prominent muscle build, it was clear that he meant business, and he wasn't about to be a pacifist about it. Without waiting a second longer for instructions, he grabbed a hold of a couple people in the clutter and pulled them away from the desk. If he had moved his right hand one person to the left, it would have been Peter being lifted by the scruff of his neck.

The uproar was incredible heightened, and not one person could get a word in without being drowned out by all of the noise. Everything was escalating, escalating farther and a fight seemed to be evident. One false move and the fists were about to start flying.

Hughes took a great, hulking hand, and firmly grasped lanky Peter, intending to rip him away from the crowd as well. The bassist's toes had hardly left the ground when Dicky attempted to grab onto the guard's arm and pull his band mate back. However, the man was remarkably strong, and along with keeping Peter high upwards, he managed to suspend Dicky in the air with him.

"Help! Help!" Peter gaped in fear, kicking his legs slightly into the air, trying to get away.

Then, the front doors opened once more. This time, there wasn't a group of rioting musicians scrambling past the guards. There wasn't a figure of authority to catch everyone's attention. There wasn't a mayor there for the musicians to suddenly turn against. There was only one man, one man bound in denim breeches and a black collared shirt. An acoustic guitar was strung over his back, identifying him as one of the people with a qualm, but he didn't have the same feverish, angered enthusiasm as the others. There was a profound aura of collectiveness and a hint of wisdom to this man, and he was recognized at once by his fellow artists. After all, there were only so many genuine Texan guitarists in the area, and Mike was one of them.

The ruckus suspended for a sliver of a moment once Mike entered the room. All he had to do was step over the threshold to cease all of the tension. A pin could have been heard dropping at the amount of silence that landed when his face was distinguished.

It was the group that was tangled up with Mr. Hughes that caught the Texan's interest first. Then, with mouth slightly agape in astonishment and disgust as he scanned the others who appeared as though they were still engaged in their activities in mid-air.

"Just what in tarnation is going on in here?" Mike demanded, his sticky, sweet southern accent lacing his words.

He quickly paced to the center of the room, the pool of people making great distance from him as he stepped closer. His boots bore heavy footsteps upon the clean, frail tile, and a small jingle of metal followed each footfall.

"I came down here," the Texan began, "to see what was goin' on about this new law, and what, just what do I find? Probably half of my people down here actin' like savages and animals, that's what."

Mike came up to Mr. Hughes, who was still struggling to hold Peter and Dicky all at the same time. Both he and Peter were being held by their collars, dangling like coats on a rack. Dicky appeared as though he were trying to wrench the tie around the guard's neck. Before Mike interrupted, he was able to pry Dicky off and hold him in his other hand.

"You, too, Pelicans?" Mike inquired as he walked up to the two. "I'd expect better from both of you. You two are no more dangerous than ladybugs, and now we have Dicky lookin' like he's about to choke this poor man."

Dicky stared at him dead on, though there was a clear amount of shame that was beginning to cross his features. When Mike reached up to gingerly take Dicky's hands away from the tie, the other musician did not protest, and he soon adverted his eyes. Once the obvious danger had evaporated, Hughes gently eased the two men back down to the ground.

Mike put his hands on his hips, turned away from Peter and Dicky, and looked to speak with all of the others in the room. "Now, is this really what you want to do?" He rhetorically questioned. "Do you want to be easy to handle only when things are going our way? Well, let me tell you something, these people misunderstand us enough as it is. They just don't get us, and they think that we're- well- exactly what we're being right now!" He made a great gesture to them all with his hand.

"Are you aimin' to prove them right? Because all you've been doin' is giving them a reason to tighten up the rules and don't look back on what they've done.

"If you want to make a real difference, let's line up all nice and orderly and calmly ask to see someone, okay? Otherwise, we'll just stay as rowdy animals that need to be kept on a leash, and nobody will listen to us then."

Mike's speech was making waves through the audience. The listeners, musician and staff alike, couldn't help but to nod their heads in agreement. Mike, himself, took a nervous breath to let out his own nerves before moving to leave and be the first to step up to the desk.

The silence was shattered as soon as the door opened once again, this time slamming against the walls that they were mounted upon. Two men disguised in long, beige trench coats and matching fedoras tromped into the room.

"Ha! They let us in!" Shouted the taller man in a coat. He threw his hat off and into the crowd before turning on Mr. Hughes. This man, who revealed himself to be Micky in disguise, threateningly wagged a finger in his direction as he was followed by his little companion.

"And boy do I have something to say to you!" This man continued to shout.

Whatever frail order that Mike was able to secure was dashed to the side. When these two men came through the doors, barking demands, bringing back the hostile vibe to the purpose of most of the people there that day, it was war between the city and their musicians once again. The attacks continued as one turned upon another. The staff pressed themselves against the walls, trying to stay away from the baying mob. Mike's authority evaporated, and soon, people flooded around him, trying to remove his close proximity to the desk.

"Now hold it now, hold it!" He bellowed above the crowd, but none listened to him this time.

The noise coming from the outside proved to be too great for the standing man in charge. The mayor, himself, decided to get involved with the small riots happening right outside of his door, and he looked none too happy about them. Carl Smith was not a man fond of noise or racket, and he certainly wasn't a supporter of rock n' roll, either. In fact, he was the man responsible for planting the poisonous permit seed into the minds of the officials, warping their views on the youth, which is what any charismatic politician would have been able to do. He owned the hand that signed the death warrant for the young music.

"What is going on out here?" Mayor Smith's nasally scoffed as he jabbed his large, hooked nose out the door. He was a portly old man with thinning white hair, and a pair of small, round glasses were perched on the end of his schnozzle.

The sight of the yelling, fighting musicians was the only thing he could get a grasp upon, regardless of the fact that his own staff was involved. As far as he was concerned, they were being the victims here, and the musicians were acting exactly how Mike feared they were. Tightly pursing his sour, wrinkled lips, he turned over to Mr. Hughes, who was once again engaged with the Pelicans, Mike, and now, the two disguised men.

"I said, what is going on here?!" Smith yelled once more, yet his tone was directed more towards his head guard. "Get them out! Get them all out of here, and never let them return!"

Needless to say, they all landed on their bums on the other side of a locked door.


	6. Let's Dance On

Dicky fancied himself the founder and lead guitarist of the Pelicans. Of course, he and bassist Peter weren't alone in their endeavors. They were joined by Fred, a ginger headed rhythm guitarist, Biff, the slightly stout drum man, and Suds, the resident heart-throb and miscellaneous instrument wielder.

None of the Pelicans lived together, but they were hardly ever seen apart. When they were, Dicky was most likely not with them, for Dicky was truly the only person who held the group together. Without Dicky, it would be probable that there would be no Pelicans, either. After all, Dicky's garage is the only place that they were allowed to rehearse, and the young guitarist doubled as a manager for the gang of slightly socially awkward individuals. Still, they managed to sustain themselves and have a bit of fun as they were doing so.

However, with the arrival of the new law, things were about to get a little more complicated, and heated arguments were boiling between members of the group.

The five guys were all crammed into the tiny, bare garage. There was hardly room for all of their equipment, and all of the string instruments were strung over the backs of their players. Dicky stood in the center of a circle that had formed from the other members, with Suds sitting off to the side on Biff's drum stool. Everybody had a seat either on the floor or on one of the tiny chair that they had crammed in there. Cups of water were scattered about to aid them on yet another blistering hot day.

"All I'm saying," Dicky informed, an undertone of stress in his voice, "is that we can't stay here anymore if we want to perform. It's as simple as that."

"And you're right," huffed Biff, who was causing the most tension. He was practically nose to nose with their leader. "But that doesn't mean that we have to pack up all of our stuff and skedaddle out of here like criminals. We've got family over here, man, and not all of us are willing to leave them behind for a few more scraps out of state."

"Welcome to the reality of the music industry!" Dicky bellowed, frustrated, throwing his hands up into the air. "If you're a serious musician and you are not kidding around about your work, then this is what you do. We're not a casual hobby band, and you knew that when you signed up. We're serious musicians who write most of their music and what we want is to find our big break. I know for a fact that we won't find it around here while that law is still around. Nevada is where we need to move to! Vegas! The city of lights!"

"Dicky, do you know how much it will cost to get us there in the first place?" Biff groaned.

"Biff, do you know how much it will cost us if we don't get our jobs back?" Retorted Dicky through his teeth. "Look. We'll try it for- say- a week, alright? If business isn't better and we aren't catching up to where we need to be by then, I give you full permission to beat me to a pulp. Deal?"

Biff was seriously considering this notion for a moment. He scanned the lead guitarist's eyes, as though searching for any trace of a lie. However, Dicky would never lie to a close friend, and his eyes at that time were stony, cold, and unwavering. Biff backed away from his high and mighty pedestal, allowing Dicky to take full control of the group's actions once again.

Nodding at Biff's submission, Dicky turned to the others and inquired, "Now, are the rest of you coming with us or not?"

Fred peered at the man with wide, skittish eyes before giving him a sharp nod of his head. This man was not the kind to argue with authority. Though, the same couldn't be said about Suds. He might not challenge Dicky like Biff would, but he did have a few qualms about some of their choices, which were normally kept quiet. An air of indifference surrounded him, and he merely shrugged while examining something that was underneath his index fingernail. To Dicky, that meant, "I don't care, whatever you want, man," and that was all he needed.

Then, Peter was the only one left, and from the nibbling that he was doing on his lip, he seemed to be uncertain.

"Come on, Pete," Dicky pleaded, using a softer tone for a more sensitive individual. "We can't be a group without our bass."

"Well..." Peter debated, making Dicky's heart drop to his stomach. "I mean, there's always a chance that things could get better over here, right? I mean... Maybe it's not as bad as we think. Maybe we're jumping the gun here. Of course it's a drag, but we can work it out, can't we?"

"That glass is always half full, isn't it?" sighed Dicky. "Look man, I won't force you to go if you don't want to." That comment received a snarky snort from Biff. "Plenty of people could play bass while you're gone, but I doubt we would be able to let you in so easily if you want to come back. I'm just telling you that right now. But we can't stay here just because you still have hope in this little place."

"I'm confident," Peter told him, unwavering. "I know that we can get over this. I just know it. And in the end, it will be you asking to come back over here. I can't go with you to Nevada. I just can't. I've worked too hard to come to California."

The lead guitarist coolly informed, "If that's your last say on it, then that's that. If we get everything ready and fast, we should be aiming to leave on Friday, so you have a few days to think about it. I hope you'll change your mind.

"I don't think I will," Peter readily responded. He had a good feeling about this. A weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

Peter never rejoined with the Pelicans. The following Friday, the young bassist was officially a solo artist, and he was faced with the struggle of fighting this new society. Unfortunately, for most of the musicians, this new law was not immediately lifted, and for several months, the effects bore down upon the starving artists. The press might have tried to publish this issue, but the wealthy had been able to snuff out anything that would shift the balance in media. However, some defiant, desperate musicians even managed to get themselves arrested by disobeying the permit requirements. Though he didn't take things to this extreme, Mike was a part of this mass poverty.

Micky and Davy were well aware of the effects that the law had on their fellow musicians, even though they, themselves weren't as miserable. With music seemingly trampled from his existence, Micky returned to film, this time not being as picky with his jobs, and Davy decided to join him. The two boys were lucky, however, as they could adapt to the changes with their varying skill sets. They naturally assumed that the others would bounce back on their feet and do the same, since some form of entertainment was better than no form of entertainment. Mike proved them to be very wrong during a chance meeting in one of the cafes.

Despite all of his attempts to peacefully reason with court officials, Mike was being blatantly ignored due to the riot that happened at town hall. Because he was a part of the miscreants that were forcibly removed, and because he was banned from certain official areas, Mike was trapped between a rock and a hard place. No matter how much he peacefully protested, the doors were always closed to him and the shutters to the windows tightly locked. He was on his own to find work as a long haired rock player, and the paying businesses simply weren't going to have him. He came incredibly close to ending up like Davy. Unlike the young Brit, however, he wouldn't have been able to play out in the open for spare change.

To the rest of the community, he was just another face in the crowd of deadbeats, and 'thank goodness' they were becoming fewer and fewer. Soon, they'd be on the brink of extinction in their area, and to those officials, the city would be clean once again.

The sun had already set over the horizon, leaving only a sliver of gold at its edges, yet the warm, moist California air lingered over the city. It felt like rain would come pouring soon, which set the perfect stage for a cup of coffee and a newspaper or a magazine.

Mike was one of the few people in the cafe on that dreary day. Perhaps it would have been livelier elsewhere, but alas, this was one of the few places in town that willingly catered to the 'long haired weirdos'. It was also one of the only places that he, personally, was welcome. Despite bedraggled appearances and a wet overcast, there was still a flame ablaze in the heart of this fierce Texan. Like most of the residents of this city, he fought long and hard to get himself situated, and he wasn't about to let all of that go to shambles so easily. He needed out of that small town. He had to stay out!

Davy and Micky were out late in the day, actually having a job to go to. They both managed to land a job in the crew of a simple low-budget, but as a result, the team had to use the most of the limited studio time that they were allotted. Getting home past midnight was not unheard of, and they considered themselves lucky to get out of the studio at eight o'clock, just enough time to grab some sodas or likewise before home.

The young Californian and Brit were the only smiling faces in the cafe, which was steadily winding down and enveloped in a hushed silence. Both boys were immediately taken aback by the cold vibes and dramatic change of atmosphere. Not a soul peered up as the bell by the door chimed, and the two men carefully stepped inside. Upon walking up to the register, they felt the need to step softly, as though too much noise, even from a footfall, would rupture the silence and chaos would ensue.

Micky whispered his order of two black coffees to the barista, who merely nodded at them and demanded their expenses. Micky calmly and quickly handed over the change, and he along with his friend were provided with their caffeine fix.

Mike had been deeply nestled in his thoughts when those two came bumbling in. He, like the rest of the customers, wouldn't have bat an eye at their entrance, but something in the back of his mind was urging him forward, directing his attention towards them. If he had blinked, then he would have missed it, but when his eyes glanced up for a half second, something clicked into place. He recognized these two, and it wouldn't have been like him to forget a face. Though, these faces were certainly much fresher. It was clear that he had seen them recently- as recent as the city hall incident.

Without letting the rest of his mind catch up with him, Mike shot up out of his seat, hitting his knee against his tiny table while he was at it. The sudden movement was enough to attract Micky and Davy's attention before they walked out. Davy's eyes furrowed as they laid upon the man, struggling to make a connection with the disheveled figure before him. However, once the infamous wool hat was plucked off of the table and slapped onto the dark hair of the strange man, he was slightly taken aback.

The man looked between the two, his eyes a little glazed over and prominent through the dark circles that had gathered around his eyes. At first, both Micky and Davy were thrilled to see him again, but upon a closer inspection, the sight only forced them to suppress their shudders. Micky might have seen people in that sort of state before, but Davy had experienced it. It was experience that he began to grasp a better understanding of the situation that Mike- and everybody else like them- were in.

"Hey," Mike addressed with an almost desperate tone, "you were at the town hall when the riots were going on."

Micky gave him a weak, nervous laugh. "What, us?" he asked, sounding a little out of breath. "Us- Why- Hah. Who's asking?" Davy nudged him in the ribs.

Mike, however, didn't seem to be moved by the skittish nature or clumsy phrasing. In fact, a full grin seemed to spread across his features, and he appeared as though he would like to embrace the two performers.

"Oh man, you don't know how happy I am to see you," Mike sighed. "I've not seen hide or hair of anybody for weeks. It's like they were all picked off one by one, all the other singers. Our little hang outs have been closing left and right, and nobody's lookin' our way. 'Til I saw you two, I could of sworn I was the last one."

The actors' stomachs churned as they leaned in to listen. Neither could speak for a moment, but the horrified expressions on their face didn't need explanations. The two of them had been trotting off in their own worlds of entertainment for far too long. They didn't even think that some people were not versatile, like they were. Many of these people would have rather moved elsewhere, sticking to their music, than going off and joining something like acting. Cinema didn't interest them, and Mike was living proof of that.

Mike caught the looks that they were giving him, almost immediately sensing that something was off. "What's the matter with you?" he questioned. "You broke into city hall, didn't you?"

"What?" Micky asked, still evasive, "what do you mean by 'broke', exactly?"

"What he means to say," Davy interjected, "is what are you doing here? Last time we saw you, you had a gig booked every night on the weekend. It's Saturday now."

"I thought you'd have known, since you were right there with us," Mike continued. "We can't play in public anymore. Not without a license."

"Yeah, well, we know that," Micky hurried along. "But some of the venues, I've heard, are buying their own licenses for the shows. We didn't even know this until we heard some people in the movies talking about it." A false hope seemed to have situated itself into his heart, trying to cover up the guilt that he really felt.

Mike gave him a heavy sigh. "It's a nice idea, but the money starts stacking up when you need a new one for every act every time they play. It's putting all of our places out of business, you see? If they pay the fees, they'll run out of money and have to close. If they don't, nobody will come; they lose money; and the same thing will happen. It's the perfect trap. Unless the people playin' want to buy their own permits, but nobody can afford that. We make too little as it is." This speech seemed awfully familiar to Micky, who cast his glance down to his shoes.

"What are you doing, then? How are you getting by if you're not using your music?" Davy urged.

"I do my best," Mike vaguely answered. "Shelling out as much as I can doing whatever I can, but even then it's not enough. If things keep going the way they're going, I'm gonna have to pawn my guitar."

"No!" Davy insisted.

Mike solemnly nodded, somehow looking miserable yet determined. "If it comes down to food or the guitar- well- I think I'll have no other choice. If it comes down to it, I might have to head out east."

"No, Mike, please! Not the army! There's so much in your life that you haven't done, so much that you haven't seen!" Micky pleaded.

"No, man, no, not to the army! Texas is east. New York is east. I want to go to THAT east. West of Europe."

Micky hummed, "Oh..."

"Don't you get thinking that I'll go down without a fight, now. They'll have to tear me out of here kickin' and yellin' if they think that I'm tossin' this away so fast," the Texan assured them with a smirk.

"I'm glad that we've got somebody on our side, but what are we going to do?" Davy groaned.

"We?" Mike mused. He figured, from their set dressing garb, that they had entirely jumped ship on the music field.

"They're killing half of what makes this place special," Micky mused, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "We have music and we have movies. If we lose just one of them, this place isn't going to be the same again. It's not going to be a good change, either."

"We've established that," Davy agreed. "Get to the point."

Mike's heart felt as though the weight of the world was taken off of it- and divided between the three of them standing there. He had allies in his sights. It was time to take action! He gave Micky a thoughtful look, as though he could tell exactly what the Californian was thinking about.

"You're right," the Texan confirmed. "Without music, our music, this place just isn't gonna be as nice as it is now, which is why I'm already two steps ahead of you. I've got an idea.

It just might work. You see, I picked up a flyer the other day- now, we have one shot at this, and we can't let anybody know that we're doing it- but it could be our ticket, everybody's ticket back to the game." Mike dug into his jean pockets and extracted a small, crumpled flyer. The page was a fading pink color with a tear halfway down the middle, but even in such a state, it was readable.

"I know we can't do it all at once. I'd like to try and get some other fellas on my side, take us somewhere safe, and talk about it there," added Mike.

Micky extracted the paper and treated it as though it was a plan made of pure gold. His elated expression grazed over the surface, ever so slowly falling to one of confusion as he read along. Davy tried to glance over his taller friend's shoulder, but ended up having to slip the parchment from his hands. Micky didn't seem to be responsive to the exchange and continued looking forward in a confused, disappointed manner.

Davy scanned over the sheet with a raised eyebrow. "Fifth Annual Fall Festival?" he curiously questioned.


	7. I Wanna Be Free

"Remind me why we're doing this, again?" Davy murmured.

Micky was currently running around the small apartment, trying to clean up every loose wrapper, scrap of clothing, or unidentified oddity that would be best kept unknown. Every out of place thing was being flung left and right over Micky's back. Davy had the highly challenging task of either making sure that the garbage made it into his handheld basket or catching the flying articles of clothing and add them to the pile on top of his shoulder.

"Because," Micky reasoned, digging through a pile of scrap like a dog, "we don't want guests to think that we leave in a scrap heap, even though we do. Besides, we're trying to make a statement and win them over to our side to help us!"

"There's only going to be two people," Davy grunted, repeating the information that Mike had relayed to them. "And are the biscuits really necessary?"

Micky turned around and looked at the tiny plate of desserts that they had set by the door.

"Okay, first, they're called 'cookies'," he informed as he walked over to Davy and carefully squeezing the sides of the man's jaw, trying to get him to repeat the word.

"Secondly, if someone drags me all the way out of town but offers me cookies as an apology, I'd be interested in what he had to say.

"Also... Mom wanted to make sure that we and our friends had snacks. Two people could make all of the difference, you know! It only takes one grain of rice to tip the scale. I know I've heard that somewhere... But besides that, I've got a good feeling about these two. They were right there beside us, fueling the flames of rebellion on the city hall!"

"Micky," Davy reminded, "they were there to peacefully protest, and only one protester other than Mike would take our calls."

A short rap came to the door, and Micky whipped around in surprise. Seems that the only two people left who were willing to fight were also early birds.

"They're here!" Micky squealed. He ripped the basket away from Davy, set it beside the door, and launched the ball of clothes somewhere behind the door where nobody could see it.

When no answer came to them, the person or people outside knocked harder and louder, clearly able to hear the excited movement from within. Without looking to Micky for permission, Davy unlocked the door and pulled it wide open.

Peter was the only one standing at the door. He came dressed plainly, with no evidence of hardship written over his features. However, Davy and Micky knew much better, for there was hardly a soul unaffected. This bassist was simply good at keeping his affliction contained. After having to direct his attention downwards in order to meet Davy's eyes, he managed to bear a light smile.

"You guys okay in there?" Peter asked with concern, his eyebrows arched.

Micky rushed over and firmly planted a hand on Davy's shoulder as he merely waved aside Peter's wondering.

"What? Yeah," insisted Micky. "Of course we are. Why wouldn't we be? Come on in. We're just waiting for Mike." He ushered the other musician into the garage and locked the door behind them. Peter, himself, was slightly taken aback by the hasty rush that Micky was instilling but decided that it was best not to argue.

"Mike?" Peter asked with curiosity. "The one who always wears that toboggan? THAT Mike told you he was coming?"

"Of course," Davy hospitably offered. Then again, he didn't know of too many Mikes that lived in the area who wore wool caps.

Peter didn't look too happy at the reassurance, however. He gave his two hosts a sort of look of sorrow as he explained, "But I heard that Mike was leaving for home today. It's causing a whole lot of heads to turn since everyone thought that he'd be the last to go."

"What do you mean?!" Micky demanded. "We called him up last night. We explained that we wanted to talk about a solution to our permit problems and he told us that he'd meet us here. He's got to meet us here. 'Eight o'clock sharp,' he said."

"Micky..." Davy gravely addressed. He was looking down at the watch he had found quite a while back. "It's... Eight-ten."

"Give him a few minutes," Micky pleaded, though his faith was wavering. "We're on good terms with him right? Never gave him any reason to ditch us like this, even though we ruined his peace at the city hall, startled him a that cafe, and just made him get up and leave irritated. But- But he was the one who came up with this plan in the first place! He wouldn't abandon us right after starting this- right? Right?!"

Davy nodded his head. No reason at all to lead them on just to get them off of his back, right?

"We need to find him before he leaves," the little Brit determined with certainty.

Micky agreed, "Yeah, let's go."

However, a little credit had to be given back to Mike, for he wasn't as flaky as he led them on to believe. Coming to Micky and Davy was a sort of last resort, but by that point in time, he was out of options anyways. Before the boys had time to grab anything and high tail it out the door, another calm, polite knock came from the outside.

A beaten up cloth sack of his belongings, mostly fresh laundry, laid at his feet, and as for the man, he was looking quite disheveled and out of place. The days were still somewhat warm, much too warm for the evergreen toboggan, and only one of his jean legs was tucked into his boot. Still, that firm determination was still rooted into his eyes, and seeing the simple group that showed up made him ever so brighter.

"Sorry I'm late," the Texan apologized. "It was a longer walk than I thought it would be."

The other three men were frozen in their places, still as stone, and surprised to find that Mike had actually shown up. However, the hosts were anything but displeased. Much like what he did with Peter, Micky whisked Mike inside without a word, a thank you, or an acceptance of his apology.

"Alright, men, let's get down to business," Micky determined. Three chairs were drawn out, one for each of them except for the speaker. Each of the other musicians were plopped down into the seats while Micky equipped himself with a basic chalkboard and a black leather riding crop.

"To defeat-?" Peter musically began questioning.

Davy cut the bassist off with, "No, man, you can't do that. That movie won't come out for another thirty-two years."

"We know why we are all here today, right?" Micky continued.

"Actually, all I know is that you were screaming on the phone last night to come down here and threatening to show up on our front door if I didn't," Peter amended.

Micky expressed a sheepish grin as he scratched the back of his head with the crop. "Sorry about that. Just got excited, is all," he offered, his voice dramatically toning down in enthusiasm for a fraction of a second. "I wanted you all to come down here because we- Davy, Mike and I- think we know how to show people that what we do isn't bad and convince them to get rid of the permit law."

Mike, not wanting his idea to be completely stolen, added, "But- a regular protest ain't gonna work. We've already tried that before, and look where it got us."

"That's exactly the point," Davy jumped into the conversation. He placed his hands on his knees before turning to Mike and Peter to present the rest of their argument. "We're acting just how they want us to act. We're forcing ourselves right down their throats and rubbing them all the wrong way."

"Exactly," Micky breathed in thanks. He pointed at Davy with the crop and added, "I'd listen to him. We're not using the things that we're good at. What kind of musician is known to be good at talking? I mean, come on. We bash out tunes, not political speeches. I say that we beat them at their own game and use the skills we know best to knock 'em out of the park!"

"So we're sayin'," Mike carefully pondered aloud, "is that we use music- to fight a law against music."

"Give us back our freedom of muse!" Davy rallied.

Peter bolted upright from his seat, shook his fist, and declared, "Give me liberty or give me death!"

A short silence covered the boys, and Davy tried to take Peter by the elbow to pull him back into his seat.

"Come on, Peter, sit down," the little Brit beckoned.

"Yeah, that's taking it a little too far," Micky murmured. "But he's on the right track. Look here." He dug into his pocket once again and pulled out the same crumpled pamphlet. He then handed it to Peter. The bassist read the paper with a slightly raised eyebrow, and Davy leaned over the man's shoulder just to get a good view.

"Really, what's a parade have to do with this?" asked Davy, as Mike and Micky had failed to tell him anything about the idea as they were feverishly planning it.

"A parade?!" Peter asked with delight. "They have to do with everything. All of the music and the dancers and the colorful floats-"

"Floats!" Micky enthusiastically remarked. He took up a piece of plain white chalk and began to make scribbly doodles on the board to illustrate his plan. "That's exactly what I'm getting at. Somebody at the city is paying for the music permits for the parade, or, actually, any float that is entered is allowed to have their own kind of music on board. It's all part of the entrance fee to the companies. It would be so easy for us to get a float, enter it in the parade, and give them all a show. The hip kids in the crowd will dig it and join in for a good time. We could turn a few people on to our cause. By the end of it, they'll be so jazzed up about the music that they'll have to let us have a trail- a petition- something to break that fine!"

Peter watched with wide, focused eyes, as though he were hanging on to every word that Micky was saying. The young bassist was completely won over by the promise of winning back their rights, for that was the only reason why he stayed behind. In fact, the big speech was entirely unnecessary. He would have been on board if they came outright and asked him to do it. However, Micky would hate to see a good speech laid waste.

Mike rose from the chair. "It's a nice thought. I'll admit it," he confessed, "but there are so many things that could go wrong. We have no guarantee that the crowd will jump up and join us or anything like that. Where do we get the money to pay? The float? I was gonna say we do something on a smaller scale that's more likely to help us." He would be the one making the presentation, too, if Micky hadn't beat him to the chalk.

"Leave the money to me," Micky insisted upon. "I'll have you know that I have my ways." As though trying to impress or prove a point, he stretched his arms out and cracked his knuckles. However, the man only ended up squeaking from pain, hurting his hand, and having to cradle it against his chest.

"Micky's family has a car we can use," Davy added on. "I'm sure we can turn it into a real groovy looking float with some paint and a few bells or whistles."

"I think we should at least try it," Peter agreed, standing up to meet Mike, who was slightly taller than he was. "I mean, what do we have to lose? If we don't win, we don't win. Nothing changes, but say that it could change something. We'd never know if we don't even try."

Sweet Peter's hopeful nature and daring to wonder eyes pierced right into Mike's spirit. The peer pressure and expectant vibes from the surroundings were starting to cave in around Mike and capture him with their will. Micky laid a firm hand on Mike's shoulder.

"What do you say, Mike?" He inquired. "We won't be able to do it without you. You're like a beacon to some of those little people out there. I can give a few pep talks and some good feeling all around, but you know as well as anybody else that I couldn't lead a starving dog to the food bowl."

To seal the deal and push Mike over the edge, Davy trot up to him with the plate of cookies. "Yeah. Don't let anybody else end up on the streets. Please," he pleaded as he pressed the warm platter towards the Texan. Hesitantly, Mike picked up one of the cookies and began to nibble on one of the ends. The gooey, pleasurable treat practically melted in his mouth, and all doubts that he had earlier were wiped away.

"Alright, I don't see why we can't give two cents about my idea, but I'll do it," Mike finally agreed. He was met by a series of whooping and celebration from his new colleagues. "Hold it, now. I've got one condition. They won't let us within fifty feet of that city hall, and that means we can't pay them to have our float in the running. I think I know how to get us in there without being spotted or recognized, but you have to do exactly what I say, got it?"

"Well, what do you have in mind?" Micky wondered.

"You've got a sister, don't you?" answered the scheming Texan.

It was as good of a time as any for Davy to count his blessings. He was off the streets in a warm, comfortable home, for one thing. The money he was making came from an actual paycheck. He was a part of a team that was dedicated to bringing back local and street music, which was probably the most important thing to him. However, for a moment, he would have to swallow the little pride that he had gained, for during the next few hours, he would have to pose as Miss Daisy and her troop of foliage fanatics in Mr. Schneider's Garden Guild.

Coco proved to be very effective in creating the disguises for the four boys, even though none of them were formulated to suit their needs for some integrity of their manliness. That is, of course, with the exception of Mike's guise, which he promised would be equally as convincing- just maybe not as humiliating.

Micky's sister was having a wild time dressing all of them up, which was something that she wouldn't have dreamed of doing before. However, when she figured that Micky was about the same dress size as their mother and her extravagant, ludicrous fashions, she simply couldn't resist. Peter slipped into one of her own lime green, simple summer dresses with ease, minus the white leggings. Davy, of course, was a little more challenging to find a costume for. In the end, she had to pull out some simple, flowy white skirt and a matching blouse from her own drawers.

When all of the clothing was put together, the fun part began. Coco had the task of outfitting the three with eye liner, lipstick, foundation, and shadow, just not in that particular order. Instead of struggling to scrap up a few flimsy, useable wigs, she simply toyed around with the hairdryer and spray, for most of them, trying to work their unusually long hair into fashionably teased bobs. In the end, they had three lovely ladies that were indistinguishable from the regular passerby housewife.

"Remind me," Davy questioned as Coco was dragging what looked like a black colored pencil over his eyelids. "Why we're doing this while Mike's- Hold on. What is Mike doing?"

"Hold still," Coco murmured to him. She chewed on her lip as she was trying to concentrate. "I'm almost done and I'll bring you out there with the others."

Davy kept silent for a moment longer, though he was none too happy about it. After a few seconds, Coco set the pencil to the side, took a couple of steps back, and tried to get a glimpse of the full picture. Her fingertips rested on her chin and she tapped her foot as she tried to determine what was missing. With a snap of her fingers, she walked over to the folding door closet and opened it up to pull out a tiny, snowy pocketbook with a faint pink bow attached to the front.

"Here," Coco offered to Davy. "It's the missing piece. Ahh, perfect. You look gorgeous." She held a mirror up to his face to reveal the masterpiece that she had created. Though he wasn't going to say anything about it, Davy thought that he looked a little sickly, and the blush certainly wasn't helping that image.

"I feel ridiculous," Davy whispered. Was it too late to go back to dumpster diving.

Coco scoffed and waved aside his worries. "Don't be. I'm telling you, you look just fine. I'm feeling a little jealous, myself," she mused. "But forget all of that. Right now, we need to get you guys to town before the hall closes. We're just waiting for Mike to give us the all-clear."

"You mean Mr. Rafelson, Mr. Schneider's dashing yet modest assistant?" came a voice from the hallway. Mike had his arms folded over his chest as he leaned against the door to Coco's room. Somehow, he had managed to find a light gray, freshly pressed suit that looked a little too bulky for him at the shoulders. A popping red tie dangled from his neck, and a matching fedora rested on top of his head. However, instead of the overhaul of costume make-up that the other guys went through, Mike barely had anything at all to mask his face. In fact, a false handlebar mustache was the only thing that was plastered to his face.

Coco gazed on with some disapproval, shaking her head at him as he entered. "You're going to go back there dressed like that?" she skeptically questioned. "Come on, surely they know your face by now. Even with all the hard work that we've done on the others, they'll see right through you if you go in there looking like that, and they're just going to turn you away again."

"Guys, can we just get out of here and pay the money before my legs are squeezed off?" Micky pleaded from the other room. Coco afforded to be a little more extravagant with her brother's disguise. He was sitting in the living room with blonde curls and, yes, leggings.

Coco took a deep breath and batted the boys out of her room. "Shoo, shoo, go now. Mom will be home soon, and I don't want her to be around too long to miss some of her stuff."

"You're telling me!" Micky shouted back. "I don't want her to be around too long to get a good look at us!"

"Micky, you look lovely," Coco teasingly amended.

Micky sheepishly smiled and looked down at his black heels. "Thanks, Babe, but I think we should get going."

Davy, figuring that that was the last word on the issue, tried to stand up and follow the others outside.

"Hold on," the Brit stated to the others as a thought suddenly struck him. "If you're Mr. Rafelson, then where is Mr. Schneider?"

Mike laughed a little at that and scratched his false mustache. "Well, you see, Mr. Schneider and Mr. Rafelson are both real people in town, and they really do own the garden guild. Almost every stiff working class person knows them personally, so I thought that it would be best if we tried to look just like them."

"You mean that you didn't make up some random business to get us into the parade?" Davy asked in appalled shock.

"No, now, listen to me. It's a town where everyone knows everyone's business, and it would look mighty suspicious if we walked in as strangers with a strange business that nobody's ever heard of. Mr. Rafelson and Mr. Schneider are gone for the weekend and they said that they might not be able to do the parade because of their budget this year."

"Okay, but who's Mr. Schneider? Couldn't one of us have been him?" Davy attempted once more.

"Mr. Schneider is a BIG red-headed man, which would have made things tougher than they already are, so I found a dummy to pose as him," Mike calmly explained.

"Well that's not very nice," Peter protested, appearing at the door with his floral print gown. "We prefer to be called intellect lacking individuals."

"Not that kind of dummy," Mike groaned. "I'm talking about the wooden kind. The stuffed kind that's been sitting on the couch with you the entire time, remember?"

"Nope, doesn't ring a bell," Peter truthfully replied. When Mike and David turned him around by the shoulders, however, things started to click.

Micky was sitting on the couch with the life sized dummy that Mike had secured. Its costume consisted of a suit that matched Mike's, and though the freckled face wasn't incredibly detailed, it was clearly made out of a rubbery material that would make the movement in the mouth more realistic. One of its stuffed arms was draped over a lovely looking Micky.

"You and the dummy getting to know each other well?" David inquired as he stumbled in. Man, those shoes could break a heel if somebody wasn't careful.

"Oh no, we've only just met," Micky excused. "But I believe that we've planned a lovely evening together."

"Please spare us the details," Mike asked of Micky as he came over to pick up the puppet.

"Why, Mr. Schneider, you've lost weight. Look at how light you are," Micky mused.

Mike ignored Micky as he continued, "This is our ticket to freedom right here." He gave the dummy a pat on the shoulder. "With the five of us, we're bound to get in."

"You don't really think that anybody is going to believe us, do you?" Davy inquired.

Later, Davy found himself eating his own words.

Getting to the city hall was no problem, and convincing the receptionist that they were an ordinary group was no problem, either. The disguises worked well, perhaps a little too well. Nevertheless, the four- actually, five individuals found themselves with an audience of the mayor, himself, who insisted upon taking the money and signing the companies up. The group carefully shuffled through the tiny door behind the receptionist's desk, trying to appear less nervous than they actually were.

"Mr. Schneider? Mr. Rafelson!" Mayor Smith warmly greeted Mike and the dummy, as though they were old friends. He walked over to the group of five with wide, open arms. Micky had Mr. Schneider's arm over his shoulder, trying to support the dummy as they walked into the room. Micky used one of his hands to reach into the back of the puppet's neck to control the eyes and mouth.

"Schneider, old boy, you're looking a little stiff," the mayor fretted as he placed a hand on the dummy's shoulder.

"Thank you," spoke Micky, who was trying to move Mr. Schneider's mouth at the same time. Unfortunately, the boy was no ventriloquist, and instead of flawlessly transferring his voice, he opened his mouth and spoke normally.

"What he means to say is, Mr. Mayor," Mike quickly stepped in.

However, Mayor Smith was no idiot. "Is he feeling quite well? Something the matter with your voice, sir?" He inquired. He glanced between Schneider and Micky, having to do a double take when his eyes landed on the wolf in sheep's clothing. "And who is this... 'darling' lady you have brought with you? I say..."

Mike wedged in between the three before the mayor had a chance to get a good look at Schneider and Micky. He was uncomfortably sandwiched between them and even more so when it came to the distance between the Texan and the Mayor. Their noses were hardly an inch apart, and despite his efforts to stay closer to Micky, Mike didn't particularly like how close he was to the sweaty old man.

"He's testing out a new hobby. Don't you know?" The Texan challenged. "Yeah, we've decided to branch away from garden guilds and endeavor into the bloomin' business of ventriloquist acts, the art of throwing one's voice, starting with Mr. Schneider here. That is no 'lady' beside of him. That's his dummy, state-of-the-art, she is."

Mayor Smith blinked in surprise and had to adjust his glasses. He then squinted, pushing Mike out of the way as he examined Micky a little closer. It was all that the Californian could do to stop himself from breaking into a sweat.

"And what a dummy she is," hummed the mayor. "Such fine craftsmanship." He brought a hand up to touch the side of Micky's face and squeeze the sides of his cheeks. It was all that Micky could do to remain erect.

"I must request a brief demonstration before our business," the mayor asked of them.

Mike was thrown off guard and silent for a moment. A split second of processing went through his head before stepping aside and letting the mayor see the two better.

"Of course, of course," Mike hastily allowed. "Mr. Schneider, would you?"

Mr. Schneider nodded his head before looking directly at Micky to begin.

"Hello!" Micky chimed in a falsetto voice, being sure to leave Schneider still as he spoke alone. "My name is- Michelle! What's yours?" To finish it off, he sang a few scales in this high pitched tone, going "La," along the way.

The mayor clapped his hands in some delight, but something in his eyes revealed that he wasn't all satisfied. He turned his back to Schneider and the dummy as he wished to speak with Mike once more.

"Well, that is certainly impressive, I must say, but you have much work to do. I can still see his lips moving a bit, and the voice needs a bit of work. Then again, your voice is much better when you sing with your mouth closed than some of these rascal youths with their mouths open," Mayor Smith remarked. Micky's oblivious, waxy expression soon darkened, and his cheeks turned bright red. He would have hiked up his skirt and marched right up to him if Davy and Peter didn't jump up to hold him back.

"Excuse me, sir," pardoned Davy as he tried to steer the conversation back on course. The little Brit, too, attempted to put on a lady's voice, but the hints of a Manchester peppered his words, obscuring his efforts. He stepped in front of Micky and Schneider as well once the mayor looked back at him. He gave a short curtsy and a smile, just to be polite.

"But we really don't have much time, and we'd really like to speak with you about the parade," lady Davy continued.

The mayor seemed to be instantly warmed by the sight of the petite young woman, and he soon broke into a light smile as he spoke with her. Davy's heart hammered his ribcage, silently hoping that he won't break their pretenses. However, it would seem that he was the only one able to fully pull the wool over the mayor's eyes. The older man abruptly became milder, kinder, and- dare he say it- smitten.

"Of course, the parade," he warmly indicated. "And who might you be, Ma'am? I don't think we've met, and that voice is mighty far from home, if I might add."

"I'm Ms. Daisy, sir," Davy cautiously informed. "I'm afraid that I'm rather new to town, along with my sister." He nudged Peter, who was gazing off into space, in the ribs.

Peter whipped around, startled at first and not entirely sure what was going on. Then, he caught sight of the mayor and jut out a hand for him to shake.

"Hi, I'm Peter," the bassist greeted, not at all bothering with the facade accent.

"Ms. Peters!" Davy hastily stepped in. "Petra Peters! That's our last name. Daisy and Petra Peters."

The mayor, at first caught off guard by Peter, glanced back at Davy and offered him another warm, tender, slightly off-putting smile. "Of course, Ms. Daisy Peters. You say that you wish to speak with me about the parade with Mr. Schneider's Garden Guild?"

"Of course, sir," Davy nodded with a thankful sigh.

"Yes, we just wanted to hand in the money, sign some papers-" Mike began, wanting to speed the process along.

"Well, why didn't you just say so? I'm glad that you and your group were able to turn up after all. It wouldn't be a parade without you. Come, let's get this situated," the mayor humbly offered, ushering Mike and Daisy into the two chairs in front of his desk. Micky tried to lean over their shoulders for a better view.

Just like that, a flick of the wrist, pen, slipping a couple dollars, and then, Mr. Schneider's Garden Guild had a float in the fall parade. Not a moment too soon, either, for most of the boys would be nursing their cosmetic injuries for the rest of the evening. High heels and men simply did not mix.


	8. Sweet Young Thing

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, let's not be hasty now," Micky attempted to convince his friends. The four independent musicians were marching down the street to an alternate garage that was used by Micky's family, and Micky was at the front of them, trying to convince them not to take a step farther.

"It was your idea," Mike nodded back to him, not stopping for a second. It was really the Texan that was leading the pack, pressing Micky forward, and Peter and Davy were merely riding on his coattails.

The Texan guitarist reasoned, "You were the one who wanted us to join the parade to get the ban lifted. You were the one wantin' to take charge and make a plan for all of us."

"Yeah, but-" Micky began.

Mike cut him off with, "Was that not your idea? You said that you could get the money for entry, and you said you could fix us up a float with your family's car."

"What's wrong with using Mom's beetle?!" earnestly reasoned Micky. "It's nice and humble and- symbolic! You know, everybody digs the Beatles nowadays, it would send some sort of mental- connection? Subliminal link?"

Mike stopped in his tracks for a moment and gave Micky a look, stating, "What? You're talking nonsense, Mick. That tired car is on its last wheel. Two more miles and it's going to pop! We can't take it down the block, let alone pile all of us up into it with all of our instruments and jam out of it."

"I get that," Micky reasoned, placing his hands on either side of Mike's shoulders. "I do. I know. It makes sense to use ANY car other than that one, but do we really have to use our nice car?"

"We're just going to look, Micky," Davy butted in. "Really, all we want to do is see it."

"See it?" huffed Micky. "That's it? You guys aren't going to try and do something to it?"

"We won't do any one thing to it," Davy confirmed. Then, raising up his right hand, "English man's honor."

Micky skeptically raised an eyebrow at that. "I've known too many English men."

"I thought I was the only one?" Davy puzzled.

"You're the only one I need," Micky returned. "Okay, we'll crack open the garage and take a peek, but I'm telling you, nobody is getting in five feet of it, deal?"

"Deal," chimed in the other three boys.

Micky, still slightly hesitant, allowed the others to follow him to the garage, where he opened up the doors for all of them. Never had they ever seen such a garage door glide up with such ease, and much more impressive was the vehicle that was housed behind it. The sleek black car had a glossy, reflective surface, and it were as though a bright, celestial light had been gleaming from behind it as the boys stood there and watched the unveiling. So glorious was the sight that they boys questioned whether or not they were worthy.

"Wow," whistled Mike, stepping forward to get a better look. The others timidly paced behind him, almost cowering behind the Texan's back. Micky nervously glanced between them and the car, as though afraid that one of them would lash out at it at any given moment.

"Gee," Peter remarked after he got a better look at it. "You'd think that with so much drama, we'd be oogling over a better looking car."

"Better looking car?!" gaped Micky.

"We mean that it's got potential," Mike stated. He was soon stepping well past the five foot the Micky had set up. Without hesitation, he walked right up to one of the tires and lightly tapped it with his foot. Micky gave out a squeak of displeasure and tried to pull the man away.

"He's right, man," Davy remarked, suddenly appearing behind the steering wheel. He slowly rubbed his hand along the leather grips before looking back up to Micky. "All of this black is such a drag. I mean, where's all the color? Who's gonna wanna see a band that's all in black?"

Peter was crouched down in front of the car, pecking his index finger at a headlight.

"I'm thinking red. Red is really my color," he determined.

"I can dig it," Davy chimed in agreement.

Mike held a hand underneath his chin and took a step back, trying to visualize the color change. "Oh man, oh man, now wouldn't she be a beauty in red?"

"Guys, you're not painting the car!" Micky attempted. "Davy, help me out- hey! You said you weren't going to do anything to it! You gave me your word as an Englishman!"

"Actually," Davy corrected, "I said I wasn't going to do any ONE thing to it."

Mike nodded to back the little man up. "Oh yeah, a fresh coat of paint is where we're going to start, but we won't be done right there."

"Well... What are you going to do?" Micky gulped.

They pulled on some protective covering and got to work almost at once. After some painting, tinkering, customization, and Micky's tears later, the little, black Pontiac GTO was turned into a popping 60's eccentric dream.

The entire roof of the vehicle was turned to a stark white, along with the fabric of the seats in the car. The overall body was cherry red in color, and carved out of the hood was a hole for the topping engine, which gleamed of silver and gold colors. All in all, the boys were both impressed and proud of their handiwork. Well- maybe all of them except for Micky, who had to go stand in the corner after a while. He simply couldn't bear to watch this happen, for his father was going to kill him when he found out. Every crevice of that corner became familiar to him, as the journey took them about a week with three people working at one time, and it left only a week more for the parade to start.

Once finishing touched were complete, Mike, Peter, and Davy took a few steps away from the car. With their faces blackened and their aprons colorful, they admired the vehicle they'd revived. It was breathtaking…

"Hey, that's not bad at all," Davy muttered to the rest of them.

Mike wiped his hands on the chest piece of the originally white apron. "You can say that again. For a few fools who don't know nothing about cars, she turned out real pretty. Men, I present to you our float for the fifth annual fall parade, 1966."

Micky was chewing on his fingernails as he came over to see what they all had done to the car.

"Oh man, oh man, Mom's not going to like this at all..." He bemoaned, covering his eyes.

"Right," Mike determined, completely waving aside Micky's worries. "That's part one done. Now we just need to work on our act and set up."

"Lucky for us," Davy began, "it looks like we've got a full band set up right here.

A couple of days after they had started the customizations on the float for the parade, the boys had finally get together for a little jam session. It was all just for fun at first, of course, just something that a few musicians could so in between paint sessions. What's the harm in a little music, after all? Then, after a short amount of time, things began to get more serious. The playing spells turned to full length songs, and everybody seemed to come together with their instruments. Eventually, Mike reasoned that they all need to be able to play together for their act in the parade. Nobody had any protests, for though they all thought that they should have gotten together since the beginning, nobody dared to voice their opinions. It was a fresh, exciting experience as they formed their temporary feature. They had determined that they'd work out how to play a few tunes, perform them in the show, and at the end of the day, when everything was restored, they'd head out on their separate ways to continue the career that they had mapped out for themselves.

Micky was set up on his drums, as he had experience with them before, and his guitar skills weren't exactly the best, even with Davy trying to help him out. Peter continued his role on the bass, which wasn't going to conflict with any of the others. Mike and Davy, however, both wanted to be on the guitar, for the both of them were most comfortable in that instrument, more so than any other one. Mike refused to do anything else, because he really couldn't play anything else, and Davy, well, he simply figured that it would be strange if they had a drummer, a bassist, a guitarist, and a maraca player all wrapped up in a pop-rock band. It worked for some songs, but not all of them. A compromise was eventually reached, and like the Beatles, they had a lead guitarist, Mike, and a rhythm guitarist, Davy. Though the idea took a little bit of getting used to, Davy figured that there couldn't be a better way of putting them together.

The night after they had finished working on the car, the boys were positively bounding back to Micky's apartment with their energy flourishing and bouncing off of the walls. They clapped each other on the backs as they drove their creation down the street, excitement bustling and spreading throughout. The satisfaction of completing a task that took some hard work caused a cloud of tangible emotion to settle over them. Now, they just had to hone all of that energy and direct it towards something else that was productive. Music was the most obvious output.

The vehicle was being relocated a little closer to home, yet far enough not to arouse the suspicions of Micky's family. They couldn't go all the way across town every time they needed to rehearse the show. With the parade being so close, too, it couldn't hurt to have their vessel nearby in case they were pressed for time to get on site. A tiny parking hideaway was just what they needed, and just after they got everything situated, they were off to follow the call of sweet tunes. When they reached the door to the apartment that evening, nearly all four of the boys felt that they could find their way back with their eyes closed. It was second nature to them: coming together, settling in front of their instruments, and simply playing.

The boys' jokes and cut ups hardly ceased when they came through the door. They chattered on, barely paying attention as they automatically reached for their instruments. A sort of simultaneous movement echoed through each of them, and they were all connected almost telepathically. With barely a word upon what they were doing- or even an idea- they started to play. Hardly any band ever sounded so pure. Raw emotion and talent was poured directly into the tunes that they were playing. After a few minutes, the boys sounded as though they became one with their song, indefinitely lost in its conceptions. No, it was not perfect. After all, they were a garage band in the middle of California, but it couldn't be denied that there was something special about these boys, their music, and the peculiar connection that they had between each other.

Every night was spent practicing, their rhythm never seeming to cease. After a while, dare they think it, they even started to believe that they sounded good together. Their lives were all looking towards the future, which lifted them even higher. What more could a few musicians ask for in California of 1966, other than some tunes, some good vibes, and some of the best company? Life, for these boys, was good, and nothing was going to drag them down.


	9. I'm Gonna Buy Me a Dog

"I have been duped! Conned! Hoodwinked!" Mayor Smith shouted towards his little staff. The three employees stood against the wall, quivering in fear as he ranted to them. "How could we let these- these rock and rollers to slip into the parade so easily? I demand answers!"

"Sir," addressed Mr. Hughes, "it looks like they came in here and signed themselves up underneath one of our presenters. On your own watch, sir. The problem is, we don't know who they are posing as, and we don't know who is a real company."

"What?!" Smith bitterly snapped. "You come in here and stir up a ruckus, claiming that some rebellious youth have snuck into the parade list, and you don't even know who they are? How, man, could you know that they've snuck in, then?"

Hughes stood, still as stone as Smith chewed him out. "Because, I saw them carting off their float to the front of their houses, yelling as they went, 'yeah, man, we'll sock it to them, man. Man, we're going to get our music back, man'. That oldie mayor couldn't tell we was rockers if we went in with our 'struments on our backs'," he mocked. Naturally, he didn't have an upstanding memory and his recollection was a rather butchered explanation for what had happened.

Smith cooled down a little bit, but he was mostly bottling up his emotions. The stout old man's face was a pulpy red color, and his lower lip jutted out as a few veins or blood vessels bulged at his temples. He placed his hands on his hips and impatiently tapped his fingers against them.

"I want proof," he demanded. "Hard, solid proof before we go around wreaking havoc and uprooting the entire facility."

"They could very well have hidden the float again. We'll never get a confession- or a search warrant from our inkling," Hughes attempted to explain.

"By God, what do you suggest we do, then?," Mayor Smith snapped back. "If what you're saying is true, we cannot let them get away with this. I will not have those delinquents coming into our good, family oriented celebration and tearing the tradition to bits."

"I suggest," Hughes informed, his voice lowering to a lower tone, "that we remove anything that will allow them to access and upset the parade."

"Stop talking in riddles or beating around the bush, or whatever it is that you are doing.

I hate suspense, just cut to the chase," Smith impatiently urged.

"I am simply saying that they cannot be in the parade if they do not have a float. They cannot bring their music if they have no instruments to play them on," Hughes clarified. "It would be a shame if any of it became damaged or lost."

"Hughes, you cannot be serious," scoffed Smith. He folded his arms over his chest, looking slightly uncomfortable. The shifty look in his eyes revealed that he could only be slightly considering this notion. That was what pressed Hughes onwards.

Hughes added on, "All I am suggesting is that we remove a dishonest party from the lineup. As orienteers of the pageant, we can add and remove companies at our discretion, at any time. If they refuse, well, perhaps they need a little nudge out of the door."

Smith briskly turned back around to look at him, seriously considering this notion. "And that is legal?" He remarked.

"It is perfectly legal," Hughes nodded. "And might save us money in the long run."

Now he was speaking Smith's language. "Very well," determined the mayor. "Hughes, I have a task for you, and I expect it to be finished before sunset."

"Yes, sir," Hughes confirmed.

All of the boys had gathered into their secret parking spot, looking like they were about to parade around and celebrate before the actual show had begun! Earlier in the day, they had cleared out most of the items in the garage to make way for their float and outfit it with everything that they needed for the show. After all of the work and time that was put into it, it seemed that everything was about to pay off. The show started in the evening of the next day, and they were going to milk out every second of work and keeping the team together.

All of the lights were setting the scene and the room ablaze with life. All furniture was roughly pushed to the sides, and only a simple table remained near the door. This table was, of course, loaded with snacks and non-alcoholic beverages for the boys, who were sprawled out all over the place, but mostly, they remained in the car.

The boys chattered onwards, their conversations long since leaving the topic of the parade. For the moment, they just wanted to have fun with each other, and they refused to address what would happen to them and their newly kindled friendships after tomorrow. When the subject even remotely started to seep into their minds, one would grab another and they'd all burst into an out of tune, energy fueled ballad.

Mike had a guitar in his hands that he originally grabbed to tune, but it eventually worked its way into the festivities. Micky grabbed Peter and pulled him to the front of the car, where they were doing- or trying to do- an out of step can-can. Davy clapped along to the tunes, occasionally taking a maraca up from his side to urge them on. The wailing songs spluttering from their lips weren't serious or productive. If anything, they meant it all as a joke.

When the two boys tired of their chant, Peter slumped down on the one chair that they could set up on the ground, and Micky trudged over to the table to gulp down a paper cup of water that he had to fill to the brim. Mike continued to work on his guitar during the break, and Davy, he had a little stack of letters that he was trying to sort through. Despite being awfully alone in the Americas, Davy actually had a few beloved family members that he had left in England. Every chance he could get, after being able to afford the postage, he would write to them. Not long after, he would receive one in return. With the noise around them settling down, except for the occasional slip of a laugh, Davy was able to concentrate and read. However, as he held the piece of paper in his hands, every word that he read seemed to make him frown deeper and deeper.

In his concentration, Davy didn't even realize that Micky was creeping up behind him, trying to read over his shoulder.

"Hey, Babe, everything alright?" Micky inquired with some concern.

Davy, not expecting the sudden question, looked up with a start before attempting to shove the letter back into his pocket. "What?" He questioned as though he didn't hear or understand. "Oh, no, no, it's fine. Believe me." He offered Micky a slightly weary looking smile.

Micky skeptically eyed Davy with a raised eyebrow before asking, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Davy quickly answered, his smile slightly wavering. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Hey, guys, shouldn't we be getting our gear set up on the float?" Peter finally pointed out. "I don't want to be up all night long getting it ready. We'll be too tired for the show tomorrow."

"Gee, that's actually some pretty smart thinking, Pete," Mike hummed with interest.

"Thank you," Peter gleefully beamed. "I don't know about pretty, but I think that it was smart. Not that it matters, of course. I like thinking more for their personalities than their looks."

"He's back again," Davy mused, glad for a subject change. He opened up the passenger side of the car and crawled out of it before he stood and stretched out his back. "I'll go grab my guitar and an amp."

"Will someone help me with my drums?" Micky pleaded.

Mike put the finishing touches on his guitar before standing up from the car and walking out to help the others with their things.

The set up was quick but sweet. Because they didn't have too much fancy equipment, it didn't really take them too long to get started. Everything had a place to be in and plenty of room to do so. In fact, they were rather glad to get it out of the way and have a bit of time left over to themselves.

"Hey, Micky," Davy remembered after set up, "didn't you say that your mum bought us all something for the show?"

Micky snapped his fingers together. "Oh, yeah, she did!" He remembered. After this sudden realization, his face fell with a startled expression replacing it. "Oh, man! She told me to go and pick them up from the dry cleaners! They're bound to close in the next hour."

"Hold on, now, calm down," peacekeeper Mike soothed as he walked back up to him, followed by Peter. "If we're quick, we can go and grab them before they close, simple as that."

Micky still looked frustrated and torn. "I saw some people walking around here the other day. What is someone sees the car?" He whispered. "Coco and Mom are out for the weekend, but who's to say that nothing freaky happens and they have to come back? Or what if someone decides to take a good whack at it? What if it's beamed up by a bunch of ali-"

Davy gently pat Micky's shoulder to calm him. "You're spiraling, man."

"Yeah, cool it, Babe, you're just drawin' up a bunch of crazy, wacko conclusions," Mike waved aside. "We'll be gone for five minutes at most. What's the worst that could happen?"

Micky was completely prepared to answer that question when Peter and Davy reached up to clasp their hands around his mouth.

"He wasn't being serious about that," Davy informed. "While we're sitting here, letting time go by, the dry cleaners are going to close at any minute!"

"He's right," Mike pointed out. "Put the keys in the float, we're walking."

"Well, I'd hope that we aren't using the float," Micky muttered with a slight edge of sarcasm to his tone. He tossed the float keys into the driver's seat before rolling up the garage door, leading the others outside. Davy was the last one to exit, his coat with the maracas in the pocket being the one item that he decided to take with them.

Davy was incredibly thankful that he didn't decide to move to a rural area. Everything in the city was close enough together that you wouldn't have to go very far to find anything. Where were the dry cleaners? They were right next to the little diner that the boys liked to pop in often. Sure, it was about a mile out from the house, but compared to some houses in the country that were miles apart, the distance was child's play. Mike would be the one to know all about that.

The sun was setting over the horizon by the time that they reached that end of town. A gentle breeze whipped past them, causing the hairs on the back of their necks to perk slightly without standing completely on end. Despite the chilly air, the boys pertained their cheery, warm spirits. The walk had been pleasant enough to the point that they nearly forgot why they were out and about in the first place. The group of four were walking past the building, itself, when Peter just so happened to stop right in front of it. The others continued to walk for a couple of steps before they noticed that they were leaving behind a member.

"Peter? You okay?" Mike questioned, looking over his shoulder.

Peter stared dead on towards the sign of the cleaners, merely pointing a finger up at it before looking back over at the others. "There's something here?" He wondered.

The others looked up at the sign and were struck with sudden remembrance at their mission. With a newly found urgency, they all rushed, clamored together, and tried to wedge into the door, all at the same time, before the store closed.

A meek little woman stood behind a counter on the inside, waiting with agape mouth as four young men fought to get inside of the shop. They rambled on nonsensical complaints to one another as they tried to get ahead, but all of it seemed to cease at once with a synchronized shout as the one dragging behind suddenly gave them all a hard shove through the door. Three of them landed neatly in a pile, Micky being on the bottom. The drummer flicked his head upwards, appearing to be discomforted until he realized that they had company.

"Pickup for Mrs. Dol-" he began.

"In the back," the woman breathlessly informed them.

After apologizing and paying for the clothing, the boys had in their position four neatly pressed outfits for the parade. Though they couldn't see them too well, it was obvious that Micky's mother picked them out of good taste, and it hardly bothered them that the colors were off.

"You know, I just don't know if yellow shirts and black vests will go too well with our RED car," Micky mused.

"It's better than what we were going to wear," Mike pointed out. "Maybe we should think about being a smudge more grateful for 'em?"

"Could be going out there in leathers and scaring everybody off," David added on. "Makes us look clean cut, ye know. I know that these probably didn't come cheap, either. I mean, where do you find banana yellow shirts?"

"Maybe not in the trash cans," joked Micky. "But I just hope that we don't look like a bunch of monkeys because of it."

Micky held up the clothing and tried to get a better look at it from the plastic, which was getting harder to do since the sun had finally slipped away from the earth. Now, the pleasantly cool wind was turning into a biting one, urging them to go back before it inevitably grew worse.

The boys could have sworn that they left the lights on in the garage, but when they entered the little neighborhood once again, most all of the houses and garages were dark. At the very least, none of the garages were illuminated.

"Hey, Micky where's the spot?" Mike piped up as they reached the foot of a cul-de-sac.

Micky furrowed his eyebrows as he looked up one of the paths to a house. "Well... It's right here, but where'd the light-" he began. Just as the last syllable was escaping his lips, his own sharp gasp cut him off. The other boys watched him as he went along, not quite understanding the rush. Then, their eyes slid up the drive to the garage, and it was then that they realized what was wrong.

"Who left the door open?!" Micky demanded as he looked around the area. "It's gone!" The garage door was wide open, and the float was nowhere in sight. Not only did their little car disappear, but all of their equipment and instruments had been seized as well. The only things left in the garage were- well- the furniture. Micky frantically searched around every crack and crevice, searching for some sort of clue as to where their stuff went.

"Somebody's robbed us," Davy breathed in disbelief as he followed the others into the room.

"Now, hold it, let's not jump to conclusions," Mike attempted to settle.

"What!?" Peter nervously demanded.

Micky gave a hysterical little shout as he ran back over towards his friends. "But he's right!" He insisted. "Mike, they've taken my dad's car, the instruments, everything! We can't enter a parade without our stuff! Oh gee, oh man, my old man's gonna kill me!"

Mike laid a heavy hand on top of Micky's shoulder. "C'mon, Mick. You need to just stop it. I'm sure that we can think of somethin'." he insisted.

"There's nothing! Somebody stole our car!" Micky bemoaned, sounding as though he was on his wit's end.

"Gee, if only we bought a dog," Peter mused, folding his arms over his torso. "None of this would have happened."

"A dog?" Micky asked him back. "We don't need any dog. We have the world's finest mutt right here. Davy, can you say 'woof'?"

"Woof?" Davy repeated in confusion.

"There you go, purebred Manchester Terrier," Micky determined. "Also fine replacements for bloodhounds. Why don't you go see what you can dig up, boy?"

With a groan, Davy slipped his jacket off and crouched down towards the ground. A few stray tire markings were still on the blacktop. He lightly touched them with his fingertips, only to find that they were as cool as the stone beneath them.

"It's been a while since they took it," he informed the others. "The track is cold."

The boys looked between one another in silence for a moment. Even Mike seemed to lose confidence in his words.

"Well..." He began, seeing that all eyes were on him. "Well now, we shouldn't be getting' so tangled up like this. I mean, any ideas who it could be? Where it could have gone?"

Davy frowned, directing his eyes back down to the ground. He had nothing. Mike proceeded to then look at Micky, who half-heartedly shrugged, running a hand through his hair in a panic, and Peter, who was equally clueless.

With a sigh, Mike told them, "I guess- that's that, then. We can't go into the show... Not like this. Even if we used another car- we don't have our instruments. We don't have the money to buy any new ones. If you're going to act like this with me, then we can't do it." His voice was downcast, but there was a hint of something fierce, something scornful behind his words.

"What do you mean?" Davy pointed out, trying to get him to speak his mind, but nervous about the answer.

"This was our last chance," Mike plainly stated. "I was riding on this to bring us all home. We all were. One roadblock gets in our way, and the rest of you act like the world is ending. I had a little more confidence in you than that. I wasn't the one who started this. We all did, and if you're going to be like this- then I just might as well go on back home."

Davy sorrowfully shook his head. Now that the voice of returning home was out, he had some confessions that he was obliged to share. "I couldn't do it even if we had our things. I have to go back home," he muttered. Then, the young Brit drew out the letter that he had crumbled into his pocket earlier. "Me grandfather wrote. The last time I spoke to him was before- well- before I started living with Micky. I wrote to him, explaining everything that happened. Where I was. Why I was struggling. How I wasn't able to write to him. It took him this long to get back to me."

"You lived with your grandfather most of your life, right?" Micky recalled.

"Aye," confirmed Davy. "He looks at me as his son. He never liked the idea of me coming to America on my own, and this-" he waved the piece of paper, "was his way of saying 'I told you so'. He doesn't want me to stay here and 'suffer', so he's ordered me back to England."

"Ordered you?" Peter asked, not able to get his mind to wrap around it.

"Yeah, ordered you?" Mike echoed. "Davy, he's a whole continent away. You don't have to listen to him. You're a grown man, for Pete's sake."

"I wasn't going to!" Davy quickly explained. "I thought that I could dig myself out of this without any help. I thought that things would be looking up, as soon as we went through that parade. I wasn't going to go with him- but if we can't get our act together, I'm using the train ticket to go from Clarksville to Pleasant Valley, and then, I'm catching an aeroplane."

"You can't leave! We can't do anything without a fourth member. That's like sending out the Beatles without George Harrison, 'cause you're no John Lennon, buddy, or the Four Seasons without Frankie Valli! When are the tickets due?" Micky urged.

"The train leaves first thing in the morning," Davy informed.

Mike took a deep breath and shook his head at that. The man had completely lost confidence in his crew. With a regretful look, he addressed the others, "Look. I think- I'm just going to head on back, think some things through. It was nice getting together and knowing you guys."

He started to walk off, shoulders slumped, down the road. Peter solemnly strolled up to Micky. "We don't have an act without any guitarist," he stated, figuring that Davy had already made up his mind as well. "I guess that I'll just try to find my old group and hook up with them again."

"Pete?" Micky stated out of desperation. However, it would seem that the young man was already too far gone. "Pete, not you, too. Mike, Mike, please come back here. We can't do anything without you. I don't know what to do now. Davy-" He cut himself off short. By then, he was shouting into the blank nothingness, all his words drifting off into oblivion. He looked over at the little Brit, wishing to catch sight of any hope that he might have had, but the way he was staring at the concrete only hammered the last nail into the coffin. The Californian grew silent, and the neighborhood was shrouded in a blanket of quietness once more.

"That settles it," Davy muttered. "I'll go pack my things."


	10. Last Train to Clarksville

The next morning held with it an air that starkly contrasted the energy of the night before. The emptiness of the garage reflected the feeling that rested in the boys' hearts, a void too deep to close.

Peter and Mike hadn't given any word, nor had the two been seen since the night before. Micky was starting to doubt whether or not he'd see them again. Davy already knew that he wasn't.

The little Brit man packed his bags with a heavy heart, for the last time he packed his suitcase, he was full of wonder, hope. Now, the actions and the container in general simply brought him down and reminded him of what could have been. Micky had hardly said a word to the boy in fear that he, himself would break down and cry. This drummer merely folded his arms and leaned against one of the walls, averting eye contact from his little buddy.

The suitcase was small, probably only large enough to take with Davy just the things that he had brought with him to America. That being, he was going to have to leave the busted pair of maracas. A lump forming in his throat, David silently set the instruments to the side of the bed, simply leaving them there for Micky to find them. Then, he closed the case and snapped the locks shut at a painstakingly slow rate. He knew that the trip was inevitable, but he was going to take every second that he had to enjoy the last few moments in this country.

Picking up the light case, he hobbled up to Micky, who still refused to look at him as he came by.

With a sigh, he explained, "I have to go, Micky. There's nothing left for me to do. The parade has collapsed underneath us. Peter is gone. Mike is heading back to Texas. There's no point in staying and mooching off of you and your family anymore. Me grandfather wants me home." Again, the drummer said nothing. "I'm leaving then... It was nice knowing you. Tell yer Mum I said 'thanks'."

Davy had to trek to the train station on foot, nothing in his hands other than the case. Lucky for him, the tickets were scheduled for a less busy time of the day, and the train station, in his opinion, was as bare as a ghost town. All of the conditions were favorable for his departure, but there was still a small inkling of a feeling that wanted to hold him back, keep him there. As he sat on one of the benches, wearing the only good clothing that he owned, he dismissed this feeling. He knew that he was just going to have to say 'goodbye' to Clarksville.

Before the young Brit could get too caught up in his thoughts, the train came rolling into the station, precisely on time. Allowing his worries to wash away, Davy attempted to focus his mind on other matters. Besides, he had a plane to catch in Pleasant Valley.

Everything held an empty silence for all three of the other boys. Now, they did not laugh; they did not joke; and they were all alone. Mike's scene was very similar to David's. He was packing up his bags to ready himself for Texas. His crammed apartment didn't leave much room for anything in the first place, leaving Mike with nothing but a sack of clothes and, of course, his green wool cap. Things were considerably lighter without his guitar. All-in-all, the pack took him less than five minutes, and unlike the luxuries that David was offered, Mike was dead broke with no help from anyone. If he wanted to get home, he was going to have to hitchhike.

Peter tried to locate the Pelicans once more, but so far, every place that he had called was leading him on what felt like a wild goose chase. His old group seemed to be hopping from place to place, with a failed attempt after failed attempt. Good thing the bassist was the only one in line at the pay phone. Then again, right when he thought that he finally got a hold of Dicky, the line dropped dead, and he hadn't another coin in his pocket. He stood there, listening to the ringing dial for a few moments before replacing it on the stand. Even then, he didn't leave the booth, but simply stood there, thinking as well as he could, which wasn't saying much.

Coco and Micky's mother returned earlier than originally expecting, only adding on to the stress and plummeting feeling that the drummer was feeling. Since neither knew about the float in the first place, it would be pointless for him to inform them about the theft. There was a slim possibility that they'd just think that somebody stole it from the off-site garage, after all.

Odds were that he was going to be blamed for it anyways.

Micky didn't really do too much after he watched David leave. He silently sat down on his bed, which was much more spacious now, and thought. At first, he didn't look where he was sitting and slammed down right on top of the items that Davy had left him. Even then, he was slow to react as he pulled the instruments out from under him. The crack down the middle of one seemed to have deepened, but he doubted that it was entirely his fault. Absent mindedly, he gave the instrument a little shake.

Those were the only things that belonged to Davy once he came into the Americas, Micky mulled over. Everything that he took back with him came from England. Everything, of course, that is physically obtainable. However, Davy seemed to take a part of everyone with him, including Coco, and especially Micky's mother. Micky bitterly smiled as he examined the little maracas, seeing that they must have kept a piece of Davy as well...

Mike was on the road well before noon that day, but it didn't look like he was going to have too much luck. By the time twelve o'clock did come rolling around, he wasn't even on the outer edge of town, and boy was he getting frustrated. How would you like it if you had to rely on strangers to get from place to place, only to find that they all think of you as scum on their shoes? That was exactly what Mike was experiencing, and one car even decided to toy with him, edging upwards every time he tried to grab the handle. After that person literally left him in the dust from how fast he sped off, Mike had half a mind to rip off his cap and tromp it down into the ground. It was staggering to this country boy that people could be so rude. Grumbling a few choice words underneath his breath, he took his bag and sulkily strode away.

Mike continued down the road for a little while, this time ignoring nearly every vehicle that tore past him. However, there was one bashed up old clunker that slowed down as soon as he was in its sights, and the driver continued to stroll up the road until it was parallel with the young man, rolling down their windows once they had arrived.

The Texan tried his best to ignore the imposing vehicle, not even bothering to look at who it was. However, the owner of the car seemed to be persistent, even loudly honking their horn to get his attention. Mike, still walking, planned on shooting a glare most cold at this stranger, only to find, when he turned his head, that it was Micky who was trying to get a hold of him. He stopped dead in his tracks, prompting Micky to stop his car at the same time.

"Hey there, Wool Cap," Micky respectfully greeted.

Mike had to do a double take, just to make sure that he was seeing- and hearing- things correctly. He then walked up to the car and put his hand through the window.

"Micky?" He questioned, just to be sure. "What are you doing out here? I thought that you needed to be home for your mom and Coco."

Micky simply answered, "Nah, they came home early. By the time they got inside, they didn't need me anymore. I came here because I heard it through the grapevine that you were walking through."

"Tryin' to catch a ride to get closer to home," Mike confirmed.

Micky made a sour face and simply shook his head in return to that. "You don't need a ride," he reasoned. "Home is only a couple of blocks away from here."

"Mick," Mike sighed, "I mean that I'm going HOME, home. Back to Texas."

"Why go back to Texas when you're perfectly fine here?" Micky retorted. "Sure, we don't have bull riding, but we do have sunny skies. Warm weather. More than enough pretty things to go around."

"Sure," hummed Mike, not impressed, "that's all fine and dandy, but it's all worthless if you ain't got a penny to your name and no way to work without going bankrupt every time you play a single note."

"We have a solution," Micky reminded.

Mike wasn't going to put up with it, as he cut off the other musician right then and there. "We had an idea. An idea that crumbled at our feet before we got the foundations up. Our float's been snatched, along with our instruments, and we lost one of our guys to England. Nobody wants a trio. It won't work."

Micky, however, seemed to be unchanged, and persisted in his thoughts. "What if," he stated, "I said that I know how we can get into the parade WITH the float AND with all four of us."

Mike seemed to consider this notion for a moment, but he still seemed hesitant. After all, Micky's ideas were sometimes the stuff of fantasy and unlikely for them to accomplish. "Well..." He muttered in thought.

"Come on," groaned Micky. "You don't really want to leave California, do you? I mean, you left Texas and came here for a reason, right? I can see it. I can see it in your eyes that you don't want to go home, but you think that you have to. I'll tell you this right now: You don't have to! Mike, I've seen where they've put the float. I know who has taken all of our stuff."

Even if Mike wasn't too enthusiastic about trying to go back to their original plan and keep pressing the idea, he couldn't stand the thought of someone keeping and man-handling his most prized possession: his guitar.

"Where'd they take her?" The Texan demanded, both of his hands on the door now. "They ain't gonna have her for long."

Micky's eyes brightened a little more as he saw the spark that was relit into his friend's eyes. "Fantastic!" Micky exclaimed. "Come on, get in the car. I'll explain on the way." He leaned over the passenger seat to push the door open. Mike spared no time in taking the door from him, furiously tearing it away at a speed that almost made Micky fear that he would rip it off the hinges. As soon as Mike's last foot was in the car, before the door was closed, Micky was speeding off down the road.

"Sorry, we're kind of in a hurry," Micky apologized. His driving wasn't in the best of shape, and he tended to swerve a little, not sure whether it was his or the old rust bucket's fault. Unfortunately, there was also quite a bit of weekend traffic on the roads, which was slowing them down. The congestion was slight at first, but soon escalated to a full blown stop before they reached the sign that led into the next town.

"Darn!" swore Micky. "Peter, can you give him the low-down? I'm going to grab a short cut."

Mike was about to question the mention of the other musician when he suddenly popped up from the back seat. He rested his arms on the central section of the front as he spoke.

"Hi!" Peter exclaimed over the sounds of Micky's reckless driving. "Micky found the car being hauled into a garage not too far from here, said that the people doing it looked like some of the security from City Hall."

"City Hall?!" Mike shouted back. He was struggling to hold onto his position in his seat, since he was being tossed around too much. "Whaddya mean the fellas from City Hall were hauling it? They had no idea that we were responsible!"

"We don't know!" Peter answered. "All we know is that they have it locked up, and we're betting that they'll have our instruments either with it, or with the mayor."

"Alright," Mike grunted in understanding, "but we still just have a trio! Drums. Guitar. Bass. All the ingredients to a cake without the sugar."

"That's why Micky is driving like a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day!" Peter explained. "We've got to get Davy back before he gets on that airplane!"

"I'm driving you two down to Pleasant Valley, quick as I can. While you're convincing him to stay, I'm heading back here to grab the float and our gear. Then, you three hop on the last train back to Clarksville, and I'll meet you at the pay phone in the station.

"That's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard!" Mike protested.

"I know, tell that to the writer," Micky simply answered.

"Hey, Micky," Peter questioned, pulling a peculiar, rectangular shaped device out of his pocket. "Why don't we just call him back from here?"

Micky glanced back for a second to see what the bassist was holding. With a gasp of shock, he smacked it out of his friend's hands. "Get that thing out of here, Peter! Don't you know that the mobile phone hasn't been invented yet?! We've been through this too many times."

Downcast and with shame, Peter mumbled, "I'm sorry..."

"Where was I? Oh yeah!" Micky picked up. "It'll take us hours to get there the normal way with all of this traffic, but with the speed we're making, I say we'll be there in ten minutes tops."

If there was a battle for time while they were inside of the car, it was nothing compared to the rush that they were fighting with when they reached the train station. Micky was so stressed that he was tempted to tell the other two guys to jump out as soon as he pulled up front. However, instead, he found a small corner that most likely wasn't a legitimate parking spot and stopped right there.

"Go, go, go!" Micky rushed Peter and Mike. "The train arrives in five minutes. You've got to get him off!"

The other two were halfway out of the door when Micky started talking to them. "Stop talking to us and let us go, then!" Mike begged of him.

"Right. Sorry. I'll meet you soon," Micky amended.

Without stretching out any of their farewells, Mike and Peter started running for the train station. A few train whistles pierced through the air, causing a lump to form in Mike's throat.

Davy gently tried to haul his case through the crammed corridor on the train. Other passengers stared on at him, giving him strange looks every time he attempted to wedge past them, though he was as polite as ever, muttering an apology every time he did so. If there was one thing that he was not going to miss about the place, it would be the funniest looks from everyone he'd meet.

"Excuse me, Excuse me!" Mike and Peter found themselves constantly shouting. Unlike their English counterpart, they held no integrity for remaining polite and respectfully moving along with the crowd. Before they reached the entrance to the train, two people dropped their shopping bags, another was knocked onto his bottom, and at least one old lady was tripped. Naturally, after this incident, Peter stole away from their time to apologize and help her get back onto her feet, but immediately after, the chase resumed.

A conductor stood outside of the train, making sure that everyone would exit and enter safely. He wasn't ready for any newcomers, and, indeed, wasn't expecting any of them, until two more long haired weirdos ran up to him, flailing their arms about.

"Wait! Stop!" They shouted as they dodged more people and objects. The two were nearly out of breath by the time that they reached him.

"There's a guy on this train," Mike panted, placing his hands on his knees. "We've got to get him out of there."

In an instant, Mike was trying to put a hand past the conductor and push his way onto the passenger train. Peter followed close behind and rammed right into his buddy's back when the conductor pushed them back.

"Whoa there, young men," the conductor scolded, "you can't come in here without a ticket."

Mike gave him an exasperated sigh and a look of pure distress. Nobody had even though about tickets. He racked his brain, trying to come up with an excuse, and fast. Lucky for him, Peter had a little bit of splintering, unhinged logic that might have been insane just enough to work.

Peter changed his persona almost instantly, standing up straighter and with an ounce of authority.

"Excuse me, sir, but we are with the CPD, Clarksville Police Department, and there is a dangerous wanted fugitive on board this vessel," Peter quickly informed, lowering his voice to sound gruff. He pulled out his wallet from his pocket and quickly flashed it open like a badge, quick enough for the conductor to see without getting a good look at it.

"Yes," Mike agreed, jumping on the bandwagon. "He's- ah- he's wanted for theft and, um, breaking and entering the Oceanside Shake n' Malt Shop."

"And grand theft unicycle!" Peter added on.

Mike snapped his fingers in realization before supplementing, "Oh, yeah, really, the list just goes on and on and on. He's a real bad egg, Mister. You don't want a guy like that anywhere near a place called PLEASANT Valley, do you?"

Our so-called culprit was, at the moment, peacefully waiting to be let off of the train, his head resting on top of his hand. Every so often he'd check the time on his time piece, only to let out a slight groan at how delayed they were going to be. He was going to be late for his flight at that rate. What was keeping them?

Mike and Peter were in a full blown run as they hopped from section to section. The conductor eventually caved into them, but informed that they had five minutes before they were taking off. The two resorted to running around, shouting their friend's name at the top of their lungs, and disturbing the peace of the people are them as they searched.

"Excuse me, Miss," Mike pardoned as he walked up to a woman. "Have you seen a bitty little English man aroun' here?"

Peter, also engaging a person, "Yeah, he's about this big," he explained, holding a hand up to his shoulder. "And he's got these caterpillar shaped eyebrows..."

Mike could see that he wasn't going to get anything out of the people that were passing by him, and they simply did not have the time to waste. He was just simply going to have to go compartment to compartment to see if he could find their guy.

"You look on the left ones. I'll look on the right," Mike ordered Peter, vaguely gesturing towards the doors.

"Right," Peter confirmed.

Mike corrected, "No, left."

Peter didn't answer to that as he turned back to do as he was told. He tore open the doors to all compartments, regardless of whether the blinds were drawn or not. Every section only took about five seconds to search, not counting the time it took to shut the doors.

Unfortunately, the boys were halfway through the first set of stalls when they heard the blow of the whistle. They'd be letting the passengers on at this point, meaning that the boys only had a limited amount of time to get Davy off before they would roll into the next station.

"The train!" Peter gasped.

Turning back, Mike grabbed Peter by the collar of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. "Come on!" He hollered back as he marched down the hall. "Just start yellin' his name. Maybe we can do it now! I'm goin' back to the front, make sure he's not already off."

This, the two simply went back to screaming the little Brit's name, their frantic, frayed nerves causing them to project a little louder than they normally would have. As such, it wasn't too hard for Davy, even with his head close to an open window, to hear them coming as soon as one arrived in his corridor on the train. He stood in the center of the aisle for a moment, struck with both confusion and curiosity.

"Mike! Mike! I've got him!" Peter suddenly bellowed out.

Peter was hardly expecting to find him so quickly, but when he did, his first instinct was to come to a complete halt. Unfortunately, he had gathered up too much momentum and was standing on a carpet, leading him to slipping and sliding all the way to the back of the cart. Mike was a little bit smarter about the situation, able to come to a complete stop in front of Davy.

"Hey, Tiny," Mike greeted. Just as the little Brit was about to inquire, the Texan laid a hand on his mouth. "No time to explain, but Micky has found the float and our instruments and we've got to get back before the parade starts.

"You just said you have no time to explain!" Davy protested in shock.

"I know, so I don't know why we're standing around," Mike added on. Without waiting a breath longer, he opened up his arms and stooped down a bit to try to pick up Davy and put him on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, man, but we just can't let you go back to England. We all need you here," Mike tried to explain as Peter trot back up to them.

"Mike, I-" Davy began.

Mike cut him off. "There'll be no 'ands', 'ifs', or 'buts', about it. We here, Micky, Peter and me, we're all your family now. Ever since we were slapped together and told to make music, that's what's happened. No stuffy ol' man in England can force you away from your new family down here."

"Mike, I don't want to go back to England!" Davy exclaimed, trying to look over his back. "That's what I'm trying to tell you! If you just asked me to come back and told me what was going on, I would have come the first time!"

"You would?" Inquired a bewildered Mike. "But... But man, I really had an entire heartfelt speech, you know, that Micky helped me with. We were all gonna win you over with our words and- all that jazz."

Davy took a deep breath to calm his nerves before he simply chuckled. "I worked hard to come to America. I wouldn't ever want to leave unless I had to," he explained. "As rough as it's been, these have been the best days of my life. You lads have really made this place feel like home. Phooey on me grandfather. If we can pull this off, I'd be proud to call myself and American!"

"Awe, come here," Peter beckoned, coming in for an awkward hug that sandwiched Davy between him and Mike.

Mike, however, was focused on other matters as he looked out the window. The train had picked up speed and they were currently cruising through the dry lands. He let out a little groan as he stated to the others, "Alright. Don't worry. I think we can fix this. I'm sure we're just goin' 'round the bend, back to Clarksville.

"What are we supposed to do until then?" Davy bemoaned.

Mike simply suggested, "Well, we've got our uniforms..."


	11. Tommorow's Gonna Be Another Day

Micky stowed his own car away before he attempted to pursue the float. The old thing wasn't exactly the master of stealth, and it would be pointless in trying to creep around- in a car- during the middle of the day. That is why he dressed himself up in a most inconspicuous costume as he strolled down the street.

As far as anyone was concerned, Mr. Rafelson was walking down the street, minding his own business as he prepared for the parade in two hours. His mustache was a little misshapen and lopsided, but he would merely excuse that he hadn't any time to shave that morning.

The entire town was dressed for the parade, Micky noted as he shoved his hands into his pockets and kept his head down low. Oranges, reds, and yellows were the thematic colors for all of the signs, banners, and paper streamers that littered the tops of the buildings for decoration. Everything was either shaped like a leaf, pumpkin, or a scarecrow of sorts. Festive barrels and booths were also scattered about, with venders from all around bringing out the first batches of apple cider or hot chocolate. Of course, nobody was selling just yet, and the only people there were simply setting up. Since the mayor was also the one in charge of the event, nobody found it strange that he would decide to scope out everyone near the site with half of his staff in tow.

"Is everything ready for the parade?" Mayor Smith half muttered to Hughes as they walked along, waving at the good citizens who greeted them.

"Yes, Mayor Smith," Hughes confirmed with a firm nod. "I have done everything you asked."

Mayor Smith looked on with approval before inquired, "And the 'egg'? Has it been scrambled?"

Hughes was completely thrown off. Before speaking once more, he stared at the mayor with an expression that clearly detailed that he thought he was crazy. "I'm sorry, sir, but you never asked me for breakfast this morning," he explained.

"No, you imbecile!" Smith snapped. "I'm not talking about breakfast. I'm talking about 'big red' and the band of misfits."

"Oh, you mean the car we stole and the poor boys that we took it from?" Hughes

inquired to clarify. Smith roughly and quickly kicked him on the shin to silence him. "I mean... Big red is stored in the warehouse on 2nd Street, with the other floats. As for the boys, one of them was seen leaving for Pleasant Valley the morning, another seen trying to hitchhike back to Texas!"

"You idiot!" Smith hissed beneath his breath. "Get the car out of there! We've got two boys still around here, and we don't need to keep their float with all of the normal ones!"

Hughes placed a hand over his mouth in concern. "I'm sorry, sir!" He attempted to amend. "I will take care of it, right away. I will put it somewhere they will never find it."

"No you won't!" Micky thought to himself. His back was pressed against a wall to one of the alleyways as he eavesdropped on their conversation.

Smith gave Hughes a forceful shove on the shoulder to send him off on his mission. The mayor, however, had more important matters to attend to, and he didn't want to draw any more attention to Hughes than was necessary. As he straightened up the collar to his shirt, he strolled of to check on the caramel apples that Mrs. Johnson was preparing. Couldn't have his guests getting hurt because of scalding hot caramel, after all.

However, the damage about the car was already done. Micky had Hughes in his sights and wasn't going to let him go until he found his father's car. As sneakily and clumsily as the disguised man could muster, he trampled through the streets to follow the mayor's minion.

The warehouse was only a couple of blocks away, as it had to be nearby for the beginning of the parade to start on the main street. All of the floats were sitting there, getting ready to line up on the road where they needed to go. However, only one of the vehicles was going to be left behind: the cherry red car with no group's name on it.

Hughes entered the warehouse through the side, away from all of the outgoing traffic at the main entrance. Micky smoothly stopped the door before the guard could completely close it, and after waiting a few moments to make sure that the coast was clear, he slipped in.

Mr. Rafelson entered the building on business, keeping his manner cool and collected. Nearly all of the floats had been cleared out of the place, all except for one. A few decorations still lingered, however, including a few spare barrels and a limp scarecrow. Mr. Hughes stood off to the side of this vessel, frantically trying to find the keys, as he appeared to have lost them. The guard's head was halfway beneath the underbelly of the car when Rafelson strolled up to him and tapped his foot on the ground. Hughes deeply inhaled as he was caught off guard, not expecting anybody to come up to him. The guard accidentally hit his head on the way up from the vehicle, resulting in a dizzying jar of his head. As he tenderly rubbed the inflicted spot, he came up to meet the eyes of the approaching party.

Rafelson's features were something that Hughes had become familiar with, and he couldn't help but to give a sly smirk. The garden guild was the only group that didn't sign a float in or out...

"Excuse me, Mr. Hughes," addressed Mr. Rafelson, "but I demand an explanation about my company's float in this parade."

"Ah, yes, of course, sir," Hughes hummed. "We have been meaning to speak with you about that as well. Mayor Smith has given orders. Please, will you step into the office so we may discuss them?" He humbly gestured to the side compartment, where a desk and some filing cabinets were located.

Mr. Rafelson took ahead of Hughes, a sense of strength and pride in his step as he went along. "Now tell me, sir, do you know why I have come out today?" The man rhetorically questioned.

"No, Mr. Rafelson. Care to explain?" Hughes innocently replied. He tried to keep his partner engaged as much as possible as he was preparing two items behind his back: A rope and a gag.

"I would," Rafelson sternly confirmed. "I would like to know why my company is listed as one of the contenders when-"

Hughes lashed out at the man like a viper. Before Rafelson knew what was going on, Hughes slipped the gag over the head and onto the mouth of the smaller man. Then, the guard whipped him around, suddenly twirling and winding a tight rope around his torso, clamping his arms to his sides. Out of shock, he stared at the guard and tried to shout out a protest, but his voice was muffled by the piece of cloth.

"Hold it right there and make no sudden movements!" Hughes demanded. "I know who you are. Don't think you can fool me, boy. You're one of those rebellious rock and rollers, trying to upset the integrity of the sacred fall festival! Reveal yourself, you scum! You aren't fooling anybody with this."

He reached out at the man in his grasp, trying to pull off the false mustache that was plastered on to his face- only to find that it wouldn't come off. Hughes paused for a moment, figuring that the tape or glue was stronger than anticipated, but then, he came back with more force, determined to rip off the disguise.

"NEVER!" returned the bold voice of our very own Micky. He pushed over one of the barrels that was in front of his hiding place before making a dash for the car. Micky was disguised as one of the scarecrows, not Mr. Rafelson. His hay laced limbs flailed about as he attempted to tear open the door and speed away. However, as he reached for the container where he stowed away the keys- they were gone.

"What!?" Micky squeaked, looking around for the little chain. "What- Where'd they go?"

As he wasted time rambling to himself and trying to scramble to find the gadget, Hughes had gotten over his initial shock at his appearance. Without any hesitation, the tromped over to the car, taking one of the large prop mallets that was laying against a wall on the office.

Micky kept frantically searching for the keys to make his getaway, but before too long, he sensed the looming presence from beside of him. The young man froze for a moment, unsure about what to do, before he turned his head up to cheekily smile at Hughes.

"Hey there, officer, there a problem?" Micky heavily asked. It only took Hughes a second to bop the boy with the mallet and knock him out cold.

The uniforms were starkly different from anything Davy was able to wear before, but it just felt so right. It was almost as though the suits themselves were perfectly tailored to fit his frame, as they seamlessly slid onto his body. When the final piece of his outfit, the belt, was clicked into place, he peered up to stare at himself in the mirror. Nothing had changed about his face, but he could barely recognize himself. The man reflected back to him was an astonishing contrast to his former little stable boy. He had to take a moment to fully appreciate that his new life was staring him in the face.

"Hey, Davy, come on, man. We've got to hop off the train at the next stop," Peter informed as he knocked on the other side of the door. They had already boarded the train back to Clarksville, under the guise of the cops escorting a criminal once more. As soon as they dragged a shambled looking Davy onto the train, Mike and Peter pulled out the uniforms to put them on before they arrived.

Davy slowly exited the compartment that he was changing in, feeling much like a new man as he was doing so. The other two young men were already in their garb and we're putting the finishing touches on their sleek hair. Those two seemed to clean up nicely as well, in Davy's opinion.

"Well look what the cat dragged in," joked the Brit to the other musicians.

Mike gave a whistle as he checked out their friend. "Not bad, little buddy," he complimented. "I think that it's missing a little somethin' though."

Davy's smile caved in to a light frown. "What do you mean? I'm wearing the same thing as you blokes."

Mike had to nod in agreement to that, but he also turned away to grab the little duffel bag that they had taken with them. On the inside was, in fact, a few simple little accessories, including a couple of hats. One of them just so happened to be an odd looking English flat cap, something that would perfectly compliment Davy's appearance and personality. The Texan carefully slapped the hat onto the little Brit and took a step back. It was like the cherry on the top of the cake.

"Perfect," Mike hummed in approval.

"Makes you look real distinguished like, Davy," Peter added, sounding rather impressed. The Brit simply smiled widely back at him, doubting whether he knew what the word 'distinguished' meant or not.

"Thanks," Davy nodded. "You said that Micky will meet us out front at the station?"

"With the float," Mike confirmed. "We might be just a little bit late, but that's okay. That gives Micky more time to get there."

Unfortunately, it would seem that Micky was a little too 'tied up' at the moment. He wasn't able to get the float back to the station- or his friends back into town. When the three musicians scampered off the train and headed for the front lot, they found it completely void of their red wagon, or the clunky car.

Davy looked around the lot with a panic, his gaze shifting between Mike and the empty roads as he tried to make sure that he hadn't missed anything. "Are you sure he told you to meet 'im out here?" He inquired.

"I'm positive!" Mike assured, furrowing his eyebrows as he lifted his hand up to his forehead to act as a visor. "He said that he was going to meet us right here, after he went to grab the float."

Peter took Mike by the arm to check the time on the watch. With a gasp, he informed, "Guys! It's only an hour before the parade! We're going to miss it!"

"Now don't panic, don't panic," eased Mike. "I'm sure that Micky's gonna be here at any time now. He has to be."

"Something might have happened," Davy reasoned. "He went all the way to grab the car all on his own. The bug could have broken down along the way or anything. We need to get back to town. Anything could have happened to him. He could be on the side of the road or the mayor's minions might have gotten a hold of him and-"

"Don't say stuff like that!" Peter gasped, placing a hand over his mouth. Davy clenched his teeth and raised his eyebrows a bit as he realized his mistake.

"Alright, alright, just calm down, fellas," Mike attempted to ease the situation. "Come on, we're not gonna figure anything out just by standin' here. Let's start walkin'."

"You must be joking!" Davy groaned. "Look at the clock. The parade starts in an hour! It's a forty minute walk just from here to Mick's apartment, more if we're going to the center of town."

"We need a car," Peter tossed out there.

Mike distastefully shook his head at the suggestion. "Man, we wouldn't be able to get a car without stealin' one, and there's no way in heck I'm putting that on my track record, too."

Peter lowered his head a bit in shame and moped a bit as he slowly scooted away from the group. If they weren't going to appreciate his ideas, then he wasn't going to give them any.

"Then what do we do, Mike?" Davy nervously inquired.

Mike formulated, "Well- see here now, we take some of our spare change and we go to a pay phone and we call someone to come- and-"

His plan stopped dead in its tracks and completely turned around. As he was trying to explain everything to Davy, Peter popped in from the corner of his eye, playing with some of the items left behind by careless travelers. These people must have been with some sort of circus, as a set of unicycles- that had training wheels- were laying forlorn on the side of the building. Peter wanted to test one of them out, since nobody was going to listen to him and leave him to his own devices.

"Peter-" Mike dismissed at first, "-that's not yours. You should really put that back. Come on, that thing can't go any faster than I can walk. It's only got one wheel."

"That's not true!" Peter insisted upon. "It's got three, you see? One, two, three."

"Hold on, he might be on to something," Davy determined, starting to see light in the idea.

Peter gave him a bright smile and answered, "I am on something. I'm on the tricycle, of course, Davy!"

Davy waved his quipping aside in order to refocus on the subject. He turned to Mike, trying to convince him, "Come on, man, it's not like we have any other options. A wheel is supposed to be a simple machine, and those are supposed to make things easier, right? I think I'd rather take my chances on an unicycle than on my feet, and like you said, we have no time!"

Without waiting for Mike to say anything to protest against it, Davy hopped onto one of the unicycles that Peter was saving for him, and soon, the two of them were speeding- more or less- down the road. Good thing they had training wheels.

Mike jammed his thumbs into his pockets for a moment as he tried to consider all of his options. It didn't take him too long to realize that Davy and Peter were right and that he was just wasting more time by standing around. He was going to follow them, but he wasn't about to ride on some silly unicycle. He could walk beside of them and continue at the same speed as them. Oh well, whatever it was that floated their boat, he supposed. Unfortunately for Mike, it turned out that the wheel and the other two musician's enthusiasm combined to make a faster force, leaving him with no choice but to grab one as well. The odd party was on their way-slowly- to find their fourth and final member.

Micky really wasn't having a good time at all, either. He was tied up by a random stranger, next to another stranger that they had purposely framed to get into the parade. The warehouse was cold; he was hungry; and those ropes around his wrists were just so irritating! Not to mention that he was frightened beyond belief with nowhere to go.

Hughes stood watch before the two men, the same wooden mallet cast off to the side in case he needed to use it on any disobedient prisoners. Wouldn't something like a firearm provide better protection and easier convincing?

"Yes, yes it would, but Peter doesn't like violence," reminded Micky.

"Hush, you!" Hughes barked back at the young man, jutting out a hand to try and fix the gag back into place. Micky gave him look of tired exasperation. Clearly, this was all too much on him and was starting to bear down on his nerves. He gave a slight kick of his foot to show his discontent with the man.

"Just you wait until my friends get here!" He vaguely warned the man, trying to keep his mouth away from the gag.

As Hughes was going to tell him off again, the back door to the warehouse opened with a loud bang, causing all of the occupants to jump in their seats. Hughes slung his body around to see if there were any new Intruders coming his way. It was Mayor Smith. Boy, did he look like he smelled something rotten right then, and his eyes were focused directly on top of Micky, looking as though he wanted his glare to burn right through his skull. This young drummer couldn't help but to deeply gulp at the sudden appearance.

"Your friends?" Mayor Smith scoffed. "You mean these clowns that I found parading around the city hall?" He snapped his fingers to signal the people behind him to walk inside. Three other loathsome minions marched inside, each of them restraining a different musician.

"Now, you see, I told you that he wouldn't be at City Hall," Mike calmly called back to the others.

"Alright, alright, I admit it, you were right," Davy confessed, equally at ease about the situation.

"Course I'm right," Mike supplemented. "Should of listened to me this entire time. You didn't know what was going on. You been tryin' to leave for England the whole time we were comin' up with a plan."

"Hi Micky!" Peter enthusiastically greeted. He tried to lift up a hand to wave, but his guard quickly snatched his hand and pressed it back down.

Smith seemed to be fed up with all of their rediculous antics at this point. "Enough, all of you! Tie them to their seats and do not let them move an inch until the parade is over!"

"I say, sir!" Mr. Rafelson suddenly pitched in. "Have you gone mad!? This is kidnapping, keeping us in here against our will. As Robert Rafelson, I demand-"

"Robert Rafelson," laughed Smith, thoroughly amused. "You look nothing like Robert Rafelson. You rock and rollers thought that you could be so clever and sneak away under my nose, but no, nobody slips past ol' Smithy's wits!"

He reached out, like Hughes, to try and rip away the mustache from the man's face, only to come up with the same problem as before. As he realized that the facial hair was real and that this was the real Robert Rafelson, he turned to Hughes with an expression of pure anger.

Sheepishly, Hughes apologized, "That is what I was going to tell you, sir. You see, I was expecting this Mr. Rafelson to be a fake, too, and pounced on him before I was able to make sure. When I found this delinquent youth, I had already tied up the real Mr. Rafelson."

"You stone head!" growled Smith. "I could be sued for this mistake."

"Funny, looks like he already knows that we can't afford a lawyer, ha ha!" Micky laughed with the smallest undertone of sarcasm.

"Keep that one quiet, will you!?" Demanded Smith. In an instant, Hughes's wooden mallet made contact with Micky's head once again, leaving him stonily unconscious. "I want them all tied back to back! We have come too far to let this fail now."

Nobody would dare to disobey Smith's orders. Soon, the minions had collected five chairs with five bodies in them, each of them tied up by the chest, and four of them struggled to loosen the rather tight binds. Shouts of protest and insult were flung at Smith, but alas, their quarreling did nothing to move him. In fact, he appeared to be quite pleased about the situation they had found themselves in.

"That's enough boys," Smith admitted, his voice starting to sound airy, almost bored. "You three, come with me. We need to be there for the opening ceremony. Hughes, stay here and keep an eye on them. We'll figure out what to do with them after the festival."

"Will do, Mayor Smith," Hughes eagerly confirmed, drawing up a chair to prop his feet upon. If he was going to be forced to watch prisoners, he was going to do it with an ounce of comfort.

As soon as the mayor and most of the minions left, the entire warehouse was shrouded in silence. Not only was their loudest and most enthusiastic member completely unconscious, but the looming figure of Hughes willed everybody to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. Only when the poor, clumsy guard fell asleep at his post did anybody dare to speak, and even then, they did so in hushed whisper.

Davy frowned, looking defeated as he turned his attention to his shiny black boots. "I'm sorry," he faintly muttered in apology. "I should have listened to you. We should have come here first- maybe then we would have gotten there on time."

The air hung heavy for a moment, and nobody wanted to address the little Brit at first. Then, Mike was forced to take a deep breath and amend, "Don't beat yourself up about it, Davy. It's all of our faults. Really, it was a bad, shallow plan to begin with, and I doubt that it would have worked if we had been the most prepared. There was a better way to do all of this, and if anybody should be sorry- it's us. We should have just let it be and you head out to England. The ordinance is still in order; they still have my guitar; and now, you're probably stuck here with us to suffer through it. "

"I don't believe that," Peter suddenly spoke up. "The parade still hasn't started yet. There's still a chance that we can make it."

"Peter-" Mike began, about to dash aside the wondering of a dreamer.

"No, listen to me," Peter informed with an uncharacteristic firmness. "I'm in this as much as you guys, and I have something to say. We've given up on this thing too many times because you guys just stop at the first roadblock. As soon as something bad happens, you want to pack up and leave without trying to go around it. I've had too many people do that to me before, and I'm getting tired of being the last man standing. As long as there is still time for us to go into the festival, I won't stop. I won't give up. As long as there is a small chance that we can get out of here, I will try everything to get us there."

"Pete's right," Micky suddenly added, his head snapping up from its droopy state. "Like the mayor said, we've come this far to fail now. Think about all of the things that we've done, all the stuff that we've been through. Davy- what were you doing before we met?"

Davy's cheeks flushed a little bit red before he answered, "I was out playing on the streets, scraping up whatever I could find."

"And then you tried trash digging at my house, and I accidentally hit you with the vacuum. Next thing you know, we're playing together! That's gotta be some sort of sign," Micky reasoned. "Peter, you joined us right after your first band moved to Nevada without you. Mike, you'd be in Texas right now if you hadn't come to the courthouse and we messed up the whole thing. Now, you've joined the band, too!"

"Is that what we are though?" Mike tried. "Are we a band?"

"What's a band, Mike?" Micky returned. "A group of people playing tunes and having fun. Isn't that what we've been doing the whole time that we've gotten ready for the festival? If we aren't a band, then nobody around here deserves that title!"

Davy felt deeply moved by the fierce passion that had apparently been invoked in two of the musicians. Seeing everyone sharing the same feelings and roughing it out together was highly encouraging. "Yeah, you know what?" He dared to challenge, "I believe we are a band! I believe that we can get out to that parade! I believe that we can turn this whole town around!"

"I'm a believer!" Micky chanted in agreement.

Everybody shushed Micky at his sudden outburst, pointing over to Hughes, who was starting to move in discomfort at all of the noise.

Their high strung emotions gently nudged to the side, they all huddled up once again. "Alright," Mike nodded back to them. "If y'all are stayin' with the band, I guess that I'm stayin' too. You can't play out there without a lead guitarist."

The three other guys widely smiled as they tried to nudge Mike through the confines of the ropes, muttering encouragement as they went along.

"Now," Mike eventually determined, "how do we get out of here?"

Davy turned to look over his shoulder and towards Mr. Rafelson, who was directly across the circle from him. "Mr. Rafelson," He inquired, "would you mind helping us?"

Mr. Rafelson would rather team up with the rebellious youth than be forced to stay put by a tyrant mayor. "Anything, my boy," he eagerly offered. "You simply tell me what I need to do."

"What we doin' Davy?" Mike returned.

"On the count of three, we all need to plant our feet on the floor and scuttle over to the car, like a crab. Then, we look for a sharp prop or an edge that we can saw through the ropes with," Davy instructed.

"Davy?" Peter offered.

"Hold on, Peter, ask me when we get over there, okay? Ready, lads? One, two-" the Brit man began to count.

"David," Peter tried again. "I snatched the car keys from the mayor when we came in."

Davy simply answered, "That's great, man. We can use them when we get over there."

Micky finally saw what Peter was on to when he turned to look over at Davy. "Davy, Davy!" He hollered at him to get him to stop before they started. "There's a Swiss knife on the key chain."

Davy looked over with some astonishment as he saw Peter, who was right beside of him, calmly slicing away at their binds. "Or, you know, that works, too," he muttered in confession.

It took longer than anticipated to get through the layers of rope, but the young bassist was finally able to free them. As soon as the last diver was broken, the five men tore out of their seats in unison and tried to dust themselves off, bellyaching a bit at the slight burns.

Micky then took the keys away from Peter and started to march over towards the car.

"Let's go, men! We have a parade to catch!" He demanded.

"What about me?" Mr. Rafelson asked.

"Oh, this is the part where all secondary characters leave and go find their happily ever after while us main characters fight at the climax," Peter happily informed.

"Hold on, man," Davy stopped. "He could help us. While we're distracting the mayor with the float, he can go find the chief of police."

"And have the mayor arrested!" Micky determined as well.

Mike found no reason to disagree. "That could probably help out our case a bunch if we had somebody older explainin' what happened, Mr. Rafelson, and we'll help out with anything else we might have hurt for the Garden Guild."

"You know, you kids aren't half as bad as people say," Rafelson mused.

"You'll do it!?" Micky begged.

"For you four? I'd do it for free!"

The parade was finally in full swing, and Mayor Smith felt as though he'd finally earned the chance to take a deep breath and relax. He had his own special place to watch the show from the steps of city hall, surrounded by a few of his followers. From where he was, he was going to have the best view of both the parade and the tiny gardens area, where all of the vendors were set up. Naturally, he could just send out one of his men to fetch something for him, should the need arise.

The parade was nothing elaborate, but it was still a pleasant little thing that was steadily becoming an honored tradition. Most of the companies would haul a simple little trailer that they'd adorned with the company title and some festive decorations. All-in-all, a red rod suddenly tearing into the road with young young men on board was not part of the normal broadcasting.

Micky was ripping through a wide alleyway, having ended up there by an old map of the town. As he was trying to drive, Mike and Peter were leaning out the windows, trying to hook up their sound systems all around the car. Davy was manning the instruments, which they found forgotten in the trunk, and trying to get them to fit into their proper places. Everybody was yelling at each other in a panic, to say the least.

"Micky!" Mike shouted as his entire upper body was outside and facing the area behind the car. "Where are you goin'? The parade is the other way!"

"No, no, trust me!" Micky insisted almost at the top of his lungs. "It says here that the parade is going to pass right by this point. If we're lucky, we can jump ahead to the front of the line!"

"You guys are out of your birds!" Davy told them. The rough forces were slinging his light frame around the vehicle, despite his firmly locked seat belt. It made it extremely difficult to jack in all of the electrical equipment.

"I think he might have hit a bird," informed Peter, much in the same position as Mike.

"Peter, where I come from, you could be arrested for that," Davy cautioned.

"Hang on, I think I see the road!" Micky announced, leaning close to the wheel to peer out the windshield. "Hold on, I'm going to jump the curb!"

And jump the curb he did. He rammed over the sidewalk so hard that Mike was almost completely launched from his spot, and Peter was desperately clinging to the roof for dear life.

"Whoa, man, whoa!" Mike exclaimed. "Take it easy, you almost turned the car into a slingshot!"

Micky finally started to slow down his vehicle, regaining a bit of his nerves. "Okay, okay, I'm done. Are you guys?" He asked.

Mike attached one last wire to their hood before slipping back into the passenger seat and announcing, "Done! We're ready for the show."

Micky smiled to himself, feeling incredibly pleased by their accomplishments. For a moment, it seemed as though everything was going to be okay. However, for these boys, things would never be able to slip past so smoothly.

The car stalled in the road, not allowing Micky to accelerate it any farther, despite the young man's frantic attempts to give it some more gas. When he realized that they were about to come to a complete stop in the middle of the road, that was when he was starting to panic. Micky looked back and forth between his feet, the road, and the rest of the guys, who all shared the same awestruck expression as his. Another bump in the road was exactly what they needed.

"I thought that this car was brand new!" Davy exclaimed to Micky as he leaned forward in the seat to grasp the seating behind Micky and Mike.

"It is! It is!" Micky declared, his hands fumbling around with the controls to try and get the vessel to do- something- anything!

Mike turned to peer out of the window as Micky attempted to get them on the move again. Flabbergasted adults and children alike gawked at the peculiar looking vehicle that had sudden ripped into the path of a pleasurable parade. Turning to look back towards the traffic, he could hear the sounds of the floats and marching bands as they seemed to be closing in. Opening the door, he stepped outside.

"Hey!" Peter directed towards him, scooting over Davy to try and get to the Texan. "What are you doing?"

"Mike, Mike!" Micky announced. "I've almost got it. Just- Just give me a couple more minutes, I promise." However, from the looks of things, he was only making their situation worse, and they just had to be stopped in front of the city hall. Mayor Smith stood from his seat with his jaw hanging down low, looking at the boys with bated breath, wondering what was going to be their next move.

It didn't take long for the rest of the parade to catch up with them, suddenly making all of the participants confused. Floats grinded to a stop. Bands stopped playing. The entire section was suddenly enveloped in an expectant silence.

The four young musicians exchanged glances with each other, wondering, themselves, how they were going to play their cards. There would only be an opportunity of still silence for so long...

Mike turned back towards their long car as he opened up the door to the backseats.

"Hand me the guitar, okay?" He beckoned.

Davy gave him a look of uncertainty before he tried to move Peter back to the boy's own side, and grabbed the guitar from a pile of the other instruments. "What are we doing?" He inquired.

Mike absently tuned and turned one of the pegs on the guitar as he spoke, "Micky. Get a drum and a hi-hat from the back. Some drum is better than no drum at all. Pete, join me out here on bass."

Without questioning anything, both boys slipped out of the car and did as they were told. Davy looked around before asking, "Hey, Mike, what do you need me to do?" Of all the things to be forgotten, the rhythm guitar was the one missing piece to their setup.

Micky, However, seemed to have a solution. He made a slight "oh!" as he approached Davy, digging in his pockets. "I saved these- just in case," he informed. All of a sudden, he drew out the old, broken, beautiful pair of maracas. David suddenly appeared to be immensely grateful as he took the items from Micky's hands with a soft, loving touch.

Still, the English man seemed uncertain. "Well... What am I supposed to do with these? We haven't done anything with them before."

"That's not true, Davy!" Peter insisted. "You've sung at least one song with those before! We've all heard you!"

"If you can't use 'em in one of our songs," Mike figured, "then you should sing one of your songs. The chords and rhythm are all simple enough, from what we've heard."

"Sing? Really?" Davy asked with a glimmer of hope. "Well, sure! I'd love to, but- can you start me off of the guitar?"

"No problem," Mike assured.

While the others were finishing up with getting out their instruments and out of the car, themselves, Mike took out a pick and started them off with a simple riff, just to get the ball rolling. Davy hauled the microphone out to the front of the car, where he had to crawl on to the hood in order to be seen a little bit better. Peter stationed himself next to Davy, casually leaning himself against the body of the car as he started to strum away at him bass. Davy gulped a little bit as he looked at the other members, not daring to start until Micky- and there was Micky, standing to the side with his drum, getting ready to start whenever Davy was. With a deep breath, the English man began to sing. It was such a pure, sweet, heart-throb voice, and though his range wasn't exceptionally high or low, it was sufficient enough to sound pleasant to the ear. His Manchester accent slipped in from time to time, only highlighting his performance. Micky gave him a smile as he started with the maracas, cueing the drummer to start off on his own instruments. Now. Now their performance was in full swing. The silence in the air was forcibly broken and replaced by a pleasantly surprised audience. The sounds were fresh, different, and not altogether unpleasant. The young as well as some of the aging-challenged were able to be amused by the music that the boys were offering them. No, the show was far from perfect. A rhythm guitar was missing as well as most of the drums, but that didn't seem to matter. It was the heart and soul of the performers that turned the event into a show. They were happy and they were passionate- which are the only things needed to have a good time. Their high spirits and the energy of their performance was rubbing off on the rest of their listeners. At first, a few people were simply shuffling their feet around to the beat, but soon, a fever, a mania seemed to catch on! The young people, seeing that there was going to be no restraints to keep them from going into the road. Dozens of people went past the ropes and started to dance in the streets, some solo, many with partners. Ever so gradually, a crowd was starting to swarm the playing boys. Everybody wanted a piece of them and their music- but mostly their music.

Mayor Smith was furious. His cheeks puffed out with hot anger, making his whole head look like nothing more than a swollen, red hot air balloon. He turned to look back at his minions and bark orders at them, but it would seem that the loud music and cheering from the crowd was drowning out his own vocal chords. The squabbling man was paid very little attention as everyone else was spellbound by the performance. Everybody- that is- except for Mr. Rafelson and a group of police officers that he had aquired from the edges of the cluttered streets.

"Mayor Reginald Smith?" One of the officers announced through a hand held voice magnifier.

Mayor Smith looked at the officer with great relief as he tried to babble out his grievances with the boys and all of the trouble that they had caused that day. However, none of it could be heard, despite the close proximity. The officer didn't seem like he would be taking any excuses, either.

"You," the officer addressed, "are under arrest for the kidnapping of Robert Rafelson and friends." Two of his officers came in from behind with cuffs to restrain the man. As the Mayor continued to protest and straggle against the forces, the main officer bgan to list his rights in a monotonous voice.

The final few chords of the song erupted in an extravagant manner, causing the crowd to rain thunderous applause upon the street preformers. Micky looked up at the steps to city hall with surprise and glee as he cupped his hand over his mouth to shout at the other guys.

When they turned their heads in that direction, Micky pointed out the scene that was unfolding upon the steps. They were victorious. The four boys couldn't help but to whoop and shout in excitement with the rest of the crowd. While their listeners saw a celebration for a solid performance, the boys saw the beginning of the end to a reign of terror. They all set their instruments to the side for a moment and met each other on the top of the car with Davy. Once there, they all exchanged ecstatic looks with a slight relief mixed into their eyes. Within a moment, surrounded by screaming, adoring fanatics, they all laid their arms over each other and came in for a big group hug. They had done it! This must be it!


	12. Epilogue: True to You

Davy looked at the piece of paper in his hands with a mix of satisfaction and relief. For the longest time, he merely counted his blessings in his head, but now, he found that writing them down was much more effective. The young Brit sat down somewhere to write, and it didn't take him too long to complete the list.

1.) Smith was out of the picture.

Reginald Smith was arrested the night of the fall parade and was removed from office soon after. It might have taken a bit longer than the twenty-four hour expectation from the musicians, a new person was put into the chair, and in return, the oppressing ordinances that were in order during Smith's rein soon toppled, leaving the people to play their tunes as they pleased, wherever they pleased.

2.) We never disbanded.

After the events of the parade, hoardes of local groups swarmed the area once again, more than half of them itching to get Davy, Micky, Mike, or Peter to join them. The Pelicans were included, too, but none of them budged. All they had to do was take one look at one another before they decided that they wanted to hang around each other for a little longer. After all, why not?

3.) I've got my own roof over my head.

That was probably one of the best parts. Davy smiled to himself as he realized this truth once more, and he peered up to look around the place.

A few months after their victory, when the spring came rolling around, the boys tied their funds from their new gigs together, and they bought a decent sized pad somewhere near the ocean.

The entire place had two levels, with a lookout towards the bottom floor at the top of the spiral staircase. The walls were a plain beige color, but that could be easily fixed with all of the numerous posters and pieces of odd art that they had been putting up from the moment that they had arrived. A small cove was carved out of the back of the room in an oval shape. The three paneled windows gave them a fantastic view of both the landscape and their quaint deck. One would have to step upon a wooden platform to get near the windows, and it was just the right size for them to put all of their instruments and equipment upon for their rehearsals. The place only had one bedroom and tons of architectural problems, which is probably why the rent was so cheap. It wasn't much, but it was perfect.

"Would you look at this!" Micky called to the bottom floor as he slid down the stair's railing. "Man, we're going to have a real groovy time in here. Imagine all the people. Imagine all the parties!"

Davy stood onto his feet and left the paper on his jacket that laid on the couch. He then walked over to their little bunny ears TV to turn off all of that background noise. "This is the best decision we've made yet," he declared.

"Better than the parade?" Peter quipped, trying to stand at the top of a ladder to straighten a fake stuffed bird over the front door. He might have been rhetorical but the tone in his voice convinced the boys otherwise.

"No, but it might be better than usin' Micky's Dad's car for a float," Mike pitched in from the kitchen, which wasn't connected as another room. The entire bottom floor was a singular chamber.

Micky's ears turned a bright red, and he tried to shakily laugh off that remark. His father was furious about them ruining the car. However, after promising to pay him back and work off the money, the man actually allowed them to keep it. After all, those alterations turned it into something that would be appalling to find that a grown, mature man owned.

"Hey, you lot!" Davy suggested, wanting to get away from that sensitive topic. "Let's go down to the beach, it's only a two minute walk down there."

The other boys thought for a moment, but they didn't seem like they had anything to complain about or something else that they needed to do. Those three agreed to join David as soon as they got changed.

"Why not just go down like this?" Davy asked them, gesturing to their full dress. "It's not like we're going swimming. It's still a bit too cold for that. Come on."

Peter, Mike, and Micky looked around at each other, with Peter suddenly and enthusiastically nodding them on. All of a sudden, they all got the same idea, and a set of smirks rested upon all of their faces, including Davy.

"Last one down is a rotten egg!" Micky suddenly blurted out. He then started rushing towards the door, egging the others on to join him and try to race out of the door all at once.

"Come on!" Peter laughed, feeling like a giddy child. "This way!"

They all tried to wedge out of the door not allowing any one member ahead of them. After some struggling and hassling, all four managed to get out of the door and were speeding down the staircase to the sea, trying to get ahead of one another. Davy trailed behind only a

little bit to raise a hand to shield his eyes, for the sun was so bright...


End file.
